


Plus One

by ghostwriterly



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (if he wears anything at all), Also Snorkeling, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Architect Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Wears Tiny Swim Trunks, Clothes What Clothes, Darcy Lewis Is a Good Bro, Dun dun dunn, Escort Service, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, My Life is Bucky Barnes Feels LBR, Oh God Yes, Pining, Protective Steve Rogers, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Steve Needs a Date, These Idiots, Tony Stark is Getting Married, Tropical Destinations Ahoy, Wedding Date Shenanigans, Weddings, You Bet Your Ass There's Explicit Sexual Content, escort bucky barnes, poor steve, send help, there's only one bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-05-18 14:32:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14854577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwriterly/pseuds/ghostwriterly
Summary: Steve Rogers is overworked, under laid, and in a bind (of the non-kinky kind): He needs a date pronto for his best friends tropical island wedding getaway. Enter Brooklyn's finest elite escort service...OR every Wedding Date AU trope you (n)ever wanted, all rolled up in one fluffy piece of crack.





	1. Tony Stark Is Getting Married

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lemonsorbae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonsorbae/gifts), [Morethancupcake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morethancupcake/gifts).



> Uh so I have no excuse for this smutty adventure on which we are about to embark. I could point fingers but you know who you are. Let's just say this fic will unironically and unapologetically beg borrow and steal from every fake dating bed sharing mutual pining trope having fic that ever was. All similarities entirely intentional. Cause I love you ho's.

For Steve Rogers, the worst part about being self employed was, by far, keeping the books.

“As your assistant, I feel I should point out that you could hire an accountant, you know,” Darcy said, dropping the mail in the middle of his _serious_ desk.

(He had an _art_ desk in his living room, next to the floor to ceiling windows. Which he would reward himself with _after he finished the accounting_ ).

Steve frowned when she perched a hip on the glossy wood corner. “Why would I pay someone, when I can do it myself?”

“Because you hate it?”

“It’s a necessary evil.”

“So are dental cleanings and you pay someone to do those.”

Steve sighed and used his trusty Bic ballpoint to change the subject. He tapped the satin ribbon-bedecked box on top of the usual bills and junk. “What’s that?”

Darcy shrugged, sliding open the right-hand drawer of the desk and digging a few York Peppermint Patties out of the bag Steve kept stashed inside. “I dunno. Courier dropped it off.”

“Darce?”

“Yeah?” Darcy mumbled around a cool refreshing mouthful of minty chocolate goodness, her bright red lipstick still the picture of perfection.

“My desk is private.” He slammed the drawer shut.

“Chocolate is never private.” She grinned and jerked her chin toward the box. “Open it before I die of curiosity.”

Steve dragged the box closer, holding his open palm in Darcy’s direction.

She dropped a foil-wrapped candy in his hand with a smirk.   

He ate the candy first, studying the pale beige box. It was an elegant paper finish, velvety and soft, tied securely with a wide ribbon bow. His name and address were hand-scrolled in calligraphy on a cream label on the side. “Here goes nothing,” he muttered, pulling on one end of the ribbon and lifting the lid.

“Ooohhh,” Darcy breathed, leaning over the desk so she could see.

Nestled inside, on a bed of pale pink satin, was a bundle of fresh plumeria blossoms, their fragrance immediately permeating the air around Steve’s head. Under the flowers rested an elegantly scribed invitation.

_Pepper Potts and Tony Stark are pleased to invite you to share in their joyful celebration…_

“I should have known,” Steve groaned. _God, he hated weddings._

Darcy stuck her face inside the box and inhaled. “These smell amazing!”

Steve tapped the back of her glossy dark head with his Bic. Sprawled across his desk like that, she was doing serious damage to his stacks of receipts. “ _Darce_.”

Darcy straightened but brought the box with her, clutching it to her chest. “What?”

“Just—” Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, warding off a sneeze. “Just take them. They’re already giving me a headache.”

Darcy dug the invitation out of the box and studied it. “Hey… Destination wedding. _Nice._ You want me to book your flight?”

“Destination?” Steve reached for the card, pursing his lips when Darcy held it aloft. “Where?”

Darcy’s eyebrows nearly hit her hairline as she recited from the RSVP. “A quiet South Pacific paradise, all our own…Welcome to _Pleasure Island._ ” She snorted and clapped a hand over her mouth. “Is he for real?”

“Yes,” Steve pinched his nose harder. “Yes, he is.”

…

“Well, I’m not going.” Steve checked the bristles of the bundle of hanging brushes, to ensure they were dry before returning them to the glass mason jar they resided in when not in use. Darcy accused him of caring more about the brushes than his own health, but good quality supplies could last a lifetime under the right care. Many a ferrule had been ruined by too much water.

“Are you obsessing about your stupid brushes again?” Darcy dropped into a corner of Steve’s sectional, the one with the chaise, and flicked on the TV. “Because there are more brushes, Steve. Dick Blick has a _whole aisle_ of brushes. But this?” She shook the invitation box, which she still clutched in her hand. “Private island getaways come along once in a lifetime. Less even!”

“I’d rather go to Blick’s,” Steve muttered, dropping the last brush in the jar and turning off the desk lamp.

“And tell Tony what? Sorry pal, can’t miss the twenty percent off sale on mineral spirits that week!”

Steve rolled his eyes. “He’ll never even notice. Knowing Tony, he invited a thousand people.”

“Fifty max.”

Steve froze. “Fifty.” He turned toward the window and then back, brows drawn together in the beginnings of a frown. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Google.” Darcy peeled up the box lid and inhaled the fruity fresh scent. “The island sleeps fifty max. In all these cute little—”

“You googled Tony’s island?”

“Well, yeah.” She dug through the bag at her feet and unlocked her phone. “Here.”

Against his better judgment, Steve took the phone. The pictures were spectacular. Staged—obviously—but spectacular. Crystal clear turquoise waters, shimmering white beaches, sherbet colored beach huts with grass roofs lining the palm-treed edges of a small chain of cays. A dream vacation. It had been _so—freaking—long—_ since Steve had had a vacation.

“You would never be _lieve_ what it costs to rent an island chain.” Darcy whistled before cocking her head. “How did you meet Tony again?”

“When he was poor,” Steve mumbled, thumbing through the pictures once more. It was lovely and so obviously romantic. Perfect for couples—shitty for a single architect who spent all his free time collecting recipes that he never actually cooked. He grimaced. “His dad disowned him for about a minute and a half when he was twenty-five. We were roommates, back when the Village was cheap.”

“You. And Tony Stark.” Darcy’s eyes were merry. “And you still got no game.”

“Shut up.” But Steve was smiling. His time with Tony was a colorful whirlwind: too many parties, too fast cars, and a flashy new girl every weekend. Steve hadn’t found the gumption to explain that he was a whole lot bisexual until he was comfortably thirty.

(Tony had sent him the entire lineup at Chippendales for Valentine’s Day in apology.)

As far as opposites go, he and Tony were maybe textbook—and yet, those months spent in Tony’s Technicolor shadow were still some of Steve’s very best memories. And they were still close; Steve had helped arrange the night Tony had proposed. His stomach clenched with Darcy’s next words.

“So glad that’s settled. You’re going. Who’s gonna be your plus one?”

…

Darcy tucked her feet under Steve’s thigh and made a _gimme_ motion with one hand.

Steve sighed and passed the sesame chicken.

“Okay how about this one: Loves mountain biking, poetry slams, and has—oh wait.”

“What?” Steve viciously skewered a dumpling with a chopstick and shoved the whole thing in his mouth. He was a professional. He had worked hard, and long, and built a successful greenhouse architecture business all on his own. And sure, he didn’t have many friends, but the ones he had he cherished. So what if he hadn’t had a date in eight months. So _what._ Who cares if he didn’t know a single person he could take as his _plus one—ugh—_ to Tony and Pepper’s wedding. Did he really deserve this? To sit on his couch eating Mr. Hong’s takeout while Darcy perused the availability on Brooklyn’s Elite Escorts dot com?

Darcy coughed. “Nine cats.”

Steve’s mouth worked. “He...owns an animal rescue?” He asked hopefully.

“Nope. Just loves cats!” She turned the phone around so he could see.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered and stabbed another dumpling.

Darcy sat up straight. “Wait. Wait just a minute.”

“Let me guess. Enjoys crochet and slasher movies. Lives with his mother.” Steve didn’t even bother hiding his pity party.

Darcy kicked him. “ _You_ crochet.”

“I _knit_ ,” Steve sniffed. “And it’s relaxing.”

“I know,” Darcy waved him off. “I taught you. No, this one’s good. Look.”

She flipped the screen around and Steve felt a flutter of interest deep in his belly. The man was grinning, like he was laughing at a private joke, bright blue eyes twinkling and warm. His jawline made Steve’s fingers itch for a sketchpad.

“Uh huh,” Darcy grinned at the faint flush on Steve’s cheeks. “I’m emailing.”

“Wait!” Steve swallowed, throat too tight as he rubbed his damp palms on his jeans. “What.” His voice cracked and he had to swallow again. “How much is this going to cost me?”

“You just got that atrium job, you can afford it.”

Steve’s hand shot out to grab her wrist, squeezing gently until she stopped typing. “And we were going to rent office space downtown, get you your own chocolate drawer, remember?”

Darcy shrugged. “I can steal out of yours for a few more months.”

“Darcy.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Okay, but don’t freak out.”

“How. Much.” Steve steeled himself for the total; he was absolutely going to freak out.  

“Five hundred dollars a day,” Darcy said in a rush. “But--”

“Five hundred dollars!” Steve nearly upended the box of dumplings and had to scramble to catch them. “A day?!” The fuck with handsome chiseled jawlines, Darcy could be his date.

Darcy thrust the phone under his nose again, the webpage open to a second, even more alluring photo of Mr. Mystery Date. “Abs Steve. Abs for days.”

Steve swatted her hand. “I don’t need abs for days. I need--” he stopped.  

“To get laid?” Darcy muttered under her breath, swiping through to the next photo, her grin widening appreciatively.

“No! I,” Steve’s mouth was suddenly dry. “Do they _do_ that?”

Darcy snorted. “Oh my God!” She fell back against the cushions, chortling at Steve’s expression. “You should see your face.”

“I really don’t like you sometimes.” Steve retrieved his dumplings and shoved in two more, in rapid succession.  

“Liar, you love me.” Darcy wiped her eyes. “And no, they don’t do that. Because that would be _illegal._ ”

“Whatever,” Steve pouted.

“Stop pouting and help me write this email.” Darcy kicked him lightly in the thigh when he didn’t respond.

“Thirty-five hundred dollars,” Steve muttered, glancing up at the ceiling. “I bought my first bike for thirty-five hundred dollars.”

“Yeah, yeah, and with any luck you can likewise ride this fine specimen off into the sunset.”

Steve covered his face with both hands. “Hail Mary, full of grace…”

“Kidding! I’m kidding.” Darcy took pity on him and erased the flirty one-liner she had written in the Escort Service reservation box. “So how do you want to start?”


	2. Oh No, He's Hot

James Buchanan Barnes was having a very bad day.

“Sorry, Bucky,” Bee Reisbeck said. “I wish--”

“Don’t.” Bucky pulled his landlord--ex-landlord--into a fierce hug. “I’ll just...find something else, right?”

“We all will,” she sniffed against his shoulder.

Thirty days. He had thirty days to vacate his fourth floor walk up, at which point it became just another piece of Brooklyn history, one more thing people would reminisce about. _Oh hey,_ they would say, _remember when regular people could afford to live in Park Slope?_

Bucky had settled into one of the studio units above Joe’s Pizza right after he completed two tours in Afghanistan. Joe and Bee Reisbeck had taken one look at this shell-shocked kid, with no college prospects but a heck of a head for electrical work, and gotten him both an apprenticeship with Joe’s second cousin, and first dibs on a 500 square foot studio apartment in their building. Bucky had joined the Army right out of high school, thinking the GI Bill would pave his way to a great career in...something not flipping burgers. By the time he was back stateside, though, all he wanted to do was sleep in on Saturdays, eat his ma’s pot roast on Sundays--six o’clock sharp--and watch the neighborhood ease quietly by with the changing of the seasons.

And that had been working for him. Right up until his baby sister Rebecca got a full-tuition scholarship to Cornell, but without a solid way to pay room and board. Their mom had worked her entire life to keep them happy, healthy, and safe, but there wasn’t an extra sixty grand lying around for college. The day Bucky caught Becca filling out a calendar with all her work shifts around her class schedule was the day he took over the payment plan for Cornell.

Thirty days. _Shit._

Thirty days was barely enough time to gather together regular rent sometimes, much less first and last month deposits and utilities on some place new. And he wasn’t quite there on Becca’s fall payments yet either. He would never in a million years find something affordable in Park Slope, or even Greenwood Heights now; their building was one of the last to go. It would soon be gutted, remodeled, and sold off to young executives hankering for some of that pre-war prestige.

“It will all work out,” he murmured into Mrs. Bee’s salt and pepper perm. “We’ll manage.”

He was still telling himself that twenty minutes later, after he had balanced his paper checkbook register. He winced at the number that was left once he’d subtracted this month’s bills; he was going to need to pick up a few more night shifts with the construction company he sometimes contracted with. Emergency electricians were hard to find, which usually worked in his favor.

He was putting together ham and swiss on his last two slices of homemade bread (his ma swore store-bought bread would kill you), when his phone buzzed. He grimaced at the sender: _Elite Escorts._ “Fantastic,” he muttered, swiping to delete. He had actually been meaning to remove his profile anyway; he hadn’t accepted anyone outside of his regulars in months. Considering the time, it was probably some bozo who got dumped at the last minute, and Bucky wasn’t in the mood to polish his shoes and act vapid for two hours.

His Army buddy Clint had first set him up with the company, back when Becca needed braces. Bucky had had a love-hate relationship with escorting ever since.

“Dude, it’s, it’s,” Clint mouth had bobbed open and closed like a fish as he gestured wildly with his hands.

“I think the word you’re looking for is _prostitution_ , Barton.”

“No, now, don’t be like that,” Clint had admonished. “You wear a nice shirt, smile a lot, and get a free meal.” He wiggled his palm in the air. “And then they pay you.”

“You do realize you’re pimping me out to be some horny old lady’s arm candy.”

“Or,” Clint raised his brows innocently with a shrug. “Some handsome old dude…”

“No.” Bucky snatched back the beer Clint had swiped right out from under his nose.

“Pays a hundred bucks a dinner.”

The bottle paused an inch from Bucky’s lips. “You’re fucking with me.”

Clint crossed his heart. “Swear on my mother’s grave.”

“Your mother’s not dead,” Bucky frowned.

“No, but she already bought the plot, far northeast corner at Green-Wood. Cost her twelve point five.”

“Thousand!?” Bucky swallowed. “Jesus.”

“New York real estate ain’t cheap,” Clint grinned and clapped his hands together. “So. what’d ya say?”

Bucky took a long pull from his beer and glared at his friend. “Are you getting commission off this?”

And that was how Bucky found himself (occasionally) living a dual life: part-time handyman slash electrician; part-time tuxedo-wearing stud.

It hadn’t been so bad. Oh sure, there was the occasional grabby enthusiast, and that one politician who had needed a little reminder of Bucky’s special ops training before he learned to keep his hands to himself, but other than that Bucky had been fortunate. He cashed in roughly a thousand bucks a month--minus five percent commission to the service--and spent fewer nights moping around his empty apartment. And his dry cleaning bill was a tax write off.

Still, he knew it was only a matter of time before his two lives overlapped in a spectacularly awkward way, and he would _really_ like to open his own contracting business one day. Preferably without having kissed half of Brooklyn good night for grocery money.

His finger hovered over the _Delete Message_ button for a few seconds; if there was any time he could really use the extra cash, it was now.

“I’m such a sell out,” he muttered and clicked open the message.

…

 _Oh fuck, he’s hot,_ Bucky groaned inwardly. _One_ dinner with superhero levels of hotness he could do, no problem, but _seven nights?_ For _twenty four_ _hours a day?_

_Potentially wet??_

He wasn’t a machine.

He schooled his face into a casual smile and stood as Steven G. Rogers, Architect, approached.  

…

 _Christ, he’s even more gorgeous in person._ Steve squeezed his eyes shut and blinked them open again.

Yup, still hot. _Fuck me,_ he thought. He should have let Darcy come along.

...

Bucky slid the escort service’s contract across the table, reaching inside his back pocket for a pen. “I’m supposed to encourage you to read it before you sign,” he said, grinning at Steve’s wide-eyed expression. They had already made it through awkward introductions and a coffee order: Bucky with two shots of espresso and heavy cream; Steve--black with two fake sugars. And _Steve_. Well, Steve was tall, blond, and broad enough that Bucky’s pulse was stuck in a perpetually stuttering rhythm. He was also cutely flustered as fuck. Bucky tried to pretend he was sympathetic. “First time?”

“What? No. Um,” Steve closed his eyes for a beat. “Yeah.” His embarrassed smile was adorable and Bucky was in deep, deep shit. “Does it show?” Steve asked.

Bucky chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Just a bit.” He leaned back in his tiny bistro chair and watched Steve read, literally, every last word. On the one hand, it gave him time to try and desensitize himself to the smattering of pale gold freckles across Steve’s nose. (Tiny freckles were the _worst._ ) On the other, his photographic memory was mocking him with its attention to fucking detail. Little cowlick on his temple, _check._ Built like a brick shithouse, _check._ He raised his brows when Steve sat back and mimicked his slouch. “So?”

Steve sucked his bottom lip between his teeth.

_No, Steve, you pretty fucker, don’t do that._

“Well,” Steve exhaled. “I think it looks… fine.” He took another deep breath and signed his name with a flourish next to a tiny yellow flag.

“I--” Bucky laughed. “Okay then.”

“What?” Steve froze, pen still hovering over the paperwork.

“Nothing, nothing.” Bucky shook his head. “First time and all, I expected some questions.”

“Oh,” Steve ducked his head and chuckled softly. “I mean, I do have questions but. Uh, maybe you do too?” He reached up as though to run his fingers through his hair but stopped, hand forming a loose fist and falling to rest on the tabletop.

Bucky had to resist the urge to gather up that fist and pet away his nerves. “I’m weirdly not that concerned.” He winked when Steve met his eyes. “Ask away.”

“Oh. Okay.” Steve seemed to consider him, eyes darting from somewhere in the vicinity of his forehead down to mid-chest and then back again, quick, his cheeks tinting pink. “Do you do this often?”

“What? Escort?” Bucky shrugged and took a drink from his water glass. “A couple times a week?” Although definitely less, as of late.

“Are they all…” Steve trailed off, and yeah, he was definitely blushing now.

“All…?” Bucky spent the time waiting wondering if the red skin of Steve’s throat would be hot to the touch.

“Overnight?” Steve grabbed his own water and took a big gulp _._

 _How are you real?_ Bucky wondered. “Ahhh. No. I don’t normally do overnights.”

“No?”

Bucky nearly grimaced before he caught himself and smoothed his expression. “Nope.”

“So why now? Why me?”

 _Why you is obvious,_ Bucky grinned. _Idiot._ “I needed some quick cash.” He snorted at Steve’s furrowed brows. “Don’t worry. Not for nefarious reasons. And hey, what kind of moron turns down a dream vacation?”

“That’s what my assistant keeps telling me,” Steve muttered.

“Well, your assistant is right.” Bucky tapped the top of the table, to catch his eye. “Something tells me you’re a workaholic.”

Steve frowned, posture suddenly stiff. “I prefer dedicated.”

The obstinate asshole that lived inside of Bucky nearly swooned. Uptight, gorgeous workaholics just fucking _did_ it for him. “Yeah, but everyone deserves a little R &R.” He leaned forward, loving the way Steve’s eyes dilated, dark pupils cutting into the pretty blue. He dropped his voice a half an octave, and said, “Maybe we can work on that next week.”

“Maybe,” Steve murmured before straightening with a jolt. “If you’ll give me your number, I can send you your ticket confirmation, and you can meet me at the airport Saturday morning. I will take care of all of your travel expenses, of course.” He flicked through his passcode and glanced up. “You do have your passport?”

 _All business now,_ Bucky mused, watching Steve’s previous bewildered timidity disappear behind a layer of laser-focused efficiency. _Hot damn._ “I sure do.” He passed over his phone and let Steve call himself with it.

“Perfect,” Steve muttered, entering _James Barnes_ as Bucky’s name under his contacts.

“Bucky.”

Steve blinked, fingers frozen. “What?”

“My name.” Bucky nodded at the phone. “Only strangers call me James. My friends, and my,” he winked. “Boyfriends, call me Bucky.”

“Bucky.” Steve carefully erased the first name and entered it again. “Okay. Oh.” He bent over to reach into the messenger bad he had slung over the back of his seat when he sat down. He slid a thin black portfolio across the table. “Speaking of boyfriends.”

“What’s this?” Bucky flipped open the cover, grinning at Steve’s resume sitting in a place of prominence on the very first page.

“It’s, uh,” Steve stood and shouldered the bag, preparing to go. “It’s me. And my friends. Who you’re going to meet at the wedding.” He shrugged. “I thought it might give you a heads up and we can...use the plane ride? To fill in the blanks? I sort of implied that we’ve been dating for a while.”

“You’re giving me homework?” Bucky snorted.

Steve crossed his arms over his chest. “It seemed simplest, yes.”

“Steve?” Bucky stuck the contracts inside the portfolio and slid it under one arm before he followed Steve to his feet. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed on Bucky’s smirk. “Why does that make me _more_ nervous?”

Bucky’s laugh rang out, carefree and easy, almost as easy as the slow, sauntering roll of his hips when he exited the coffee shop a few seconds later.

Steve closed his eyes and groaned. “I’m in big trouble.”  


	3. Help Me, Help You

When Steve didn’t answer her knock, Darcy let herself into his apartment. Presumptuous? Yes. Necessary if she ever had a prayer of catching a bareback glimpse of the Steve-booty? Yes.

She found him flat on his back on the sectional (fully clothed), a throw pillow shoved tight against his face. When he didn’t move, she swatted at his big dumb foot. “So?”

Steve moaned pitifully. “It was horrible.”

“That pretty, huh?” She shoved his feet aside and tucked into her corner.

Steve peeked out from under a red tassel. “You have no idea.”

“I mean…I did see the pictures,” Darcy grinned.

“No,” Steve moaned again. “The pictures were absolute _shit_. He’s--he’s--” He threw the pillow across the room and glared up at the ceiling. “He looked like he wanted to eat me.”

“Well, all right!” Darcy smacked him on the shin. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!”

Steve turned the glare on her. “I have to _sleep_ with him. And he’s _hot!_ ”

Darcy wrinkled her nose in sympathy. “Yeah Steve, that’s a real tragedy.”

He sat up suddenly, _without using his hands,_ and Darcy fanned herself.

“I’m going to die,” he said in resignation.

Darcy nodded with a dreamy smile. “Yeah, but what a way to go.”

…

“You can’t take those.”

“Why not?” Steve paused, his only pair of swim trunks half folded in his hands.

“My _grandpa_ has the exact same ones.” She rifled through his suitcase. “Also? This? Needs to go to that great big ugly t-shirt bin in the sky.” She tossed two more shirts behind her.

“ _Darcy_.”

“Steve.” She gripped him by the shoulders. “Help me, help you. Give me your credit card.”

“What? No!”

“Steven Grant.”

“Darcy Mae.”

She gritted her teeth. “Oh just for that, mister, I’m tempted to _let_ you prance around paradise with the hot stripper looking like my great aunt Alice’s favorite piece of ass.”

“He’s not a stripper,” Steve grumbled, ears burning.

“Not yet,” she winked and snatched Steve’s wallet out of his hand.

…

“Ma, it’s one dinner,” Bucky sighed, closing his eyes before he amended. “Well two. It’s two Sundays Ma, and that’s it.”

“I don’t like it. Running off to third world countries--You just got back!”

“ _Ma_ .” Bucky counted to five. “I’ve been _back_ seven years. And Fiji is not--you know what, nevermind. I’m taking  a vacation.” The silence stretched over the line long enough he pulled the phone away to look at the signal. “You still there?”

“You never take vacation,” his mother said slowly.

“Well, I am.” He shoved a couple of t-shirts into his backpack. What else? He had underwear, two pair of shorts, and something to swim in. Assuming this wasn’t a clothing optional kind of beach (and remembering Steve’s shoulder to hip ratio, _please God let it be a clothing optional beach)._ The backpack plus his nice suit and he should be fine. He wouldn’t need socks in all that humidity, right?

“Is this about a girl?”

“Oh my God,” Bucky mumbled.

“Do not sass me in the name of the Lord, Jamie Barnes.”

“Ma, I don’t even date girls. You _know_ this.”

“Marjorie Willis saw you at Lincoln Center six months ago with a trashy blonde in orange lipstick.”

Bucky groaned. _This_ was why he wanted out of the escort business. “Ma, that was work. This is vacation. With a,” He bit his lip. _Jesus fucking Christ, he was going in._ “With a guy.”

“That I haven’t met? I cannot believe--” Whatever else his mother was going to say was cut off by the clatter of pots and pans, and a barrage of cursing. _In Romanian._

“Ma.” Bucky winced when a particularly colorful phrase filled his mother’s kitchen. “Ma!”

“I can’t do pot roast, not at this late hour.” His mother was out of breath. “But I can do meatloaf.”

Bucky banged his head against the closet door. “Ma, I have a seven a.m. flight tomorrow, I can’t--”

“I’ll see you at six.”

The empty silence of a disconnected call let Bucky know he was definitely having meatloaf for dinner.

…

Bucky let himself into his apartment at half past nine, too full and too wiped to deal with the sudden buzzing of his phone. He smiled, though, when he saw the caller and accepted the Facetime request. _Becca._

“So I hear you’re slutting it up in like Greater Samoa or something for the next week.”

Bucky rolled his eyes at her exaggerated eyebrow waggle. “That was fast. And why is it always Samoa with her?”

“I dunno,” Becca shrugged. “She gets a bone and she chews it. And don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not!” Bucky tossed a still-warm loaf of bread on the kitchen counter.

“Is that bread? You’re going to be gone all week.”

“ _I know,_ ” Bucky said in exasperation. “I tried to tell her! ‘ _Don’t you be eating that airplane food Jamie. You’ll have the green shits all week!’”_

Becca snorted. “Mama did _not_ say the green shits.”

“Well, she said it in Polish, so my translation could be off,” Bucky grinned. Growing up, their house had been a vibrant array of both their family’s and the neighborhood’s ethnicities. His mother had been born in Brooklyn to Polish-Romanian immigrants, but it wasn’t unusual for a smattering of Spanglish to fall from her lips when she was particularly pissed off. And for the majority of Bucky’s adolescence, she had been pissed off a _lot. ‘I’m going to beat your ass, Jamie Barnes!’_ sounded pretty much the same in all languages. Lucky for him, his ma was a five foot two inch roly poly lump of affection who would sooner beat her _own_ ass than his or Becca’s. Although she was the first to come out swinging if anyone else tried to have a go at them.

He fell back onto the couch. “So what’s up with you, squirt?”

“Nuh uh,” Becca wagged a finger in front of the phone. “I’ve got my own bone here. Deets.”

“I’m not giving you deets, Rebecca.”

“Oh my God, you’re blushing. Is he hot? He is, isn’t he?” Becca squealed when Bucky couldn’t quite withhold a smile. “Show me.”

Bucky sighed and dragged his laptop onto his lap. He had done a little bit of recon after he had returned from the coffee shop, and he might have saved a few choice images from the interwebs. Steve should really update his profile photo on Facebook though; he looked about two khaki’s shy of a missionary sabbatical.

“Okay, here they come.”

Becca’s face disappeared as she checked her email. “Oh my God.” Her voice echoed in her tiny dorm room. “This is a huge problem, Buck.”

“What? Why?” Bucky’s stomach clenched. Had he been so enamored of Steve’s thighs that he had missed him on America’s Most Wanted?

“I can’t have sisterly feelings about _this._ ” She turned the phone toward the screen of her iPad, filled with a shot of laughing Steve, shirtless and tossing a football to some unknown player in the distance.

“Join the club,” Bucky muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You’re toast,” Becca said cheerfully, rolling to her stomach and propping her chin on one fist.

Bucky held his breath for a beat and then exhaled through his nose, eyes squeezed tightly closed. “Bec?”

“Oh no,” Becca said quietly.

“Yeah.”

“I thought you were done.”

“I was! I am. I just--” Bucky swallowed and looked at his baby sister, her jaunty dark curls framing a heart-shaped face. She was the best parts of him, of his ma, and she was worth it. “It’s the last one. Promise.”

“Fuck,” Becca whispered.

“Rebecca Anne.”

She snorted and then twisted her lips. “But, you like him. I can tell.”

Bucky’s expression was incredulous. “Well--duh?”

She laughed. “No, I mean, even _you_ aren’t fooled by a pretty face and a tight ass.”

“Bec!”

“What? You’re not. You’re the best judge of character I know.” She shrugged. “And you like him.”

“I barely know him,” Bucky muttered, clicking through the pictures he had saved of Steve.

“Sometimes you just...know.”

“Thank you Harlequin Romance.”

“Shut up.” She rolled to her back. “And tell me more about Hotty McHotpants.”

“ _Steve_. And isn’t it past your bedtime?” Bucky complained, although he really didn’t mind. His nerves had been a mess all day, and the simple dinner with his mom followed by the take no bullshit attitude of his sister was the best medicine.

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do."

“We?” Bucky grinned.

“Well, yeah. Clearly with all _this_ shoved up in your face night and day, you can’t be trusted to use your upstairs brain the whole time.” She had the phone tilted to include the photo of Steve, and Bucky had to admit: she had a point.

“Operation objective: Bang Steve.”

“Re _becca._ ” Bucky felt his entire body flush.

“Confirm mission is a go, Barnes.”

Bucky sighed the sigh of weary older brothers everywhere. “Confirm.”

“I’m _so excited!”_ Becca squealed.

“I’m cancelling your Netflix,” Bucky muttered under his breath.  

“I love you, too. Preliminary report tomorrow, ten p.m. Pacific.” And with a cheeky blown kiss, she was gone.

…

“I can’t wear this.” Steve frowned at his reflection in the closet mirror.

“Oh yes you can,” Darcy whistled appreciatively. The muted blue of the t-shirt echoed the blue of Steve’s eyes, and the cut was just this side of obscene.

Steve squirmed, tugging at his crotch. “These jeans are too tight.”

Darcy slapped him on the butt. “That’s because they _fit,_ grandpa.”

“I can’t breathe,” Steve grumbled, smoothing out the shirt hem and rolling his eyes when Darcy patted herself on the back.

“Then I guess you’ll be that much happier when you get to take them off.” She strolled out of the bedroom, tossing his wallet on the bed as she passed. “You’re welcome!”

“I’m disowning you,” Steve complained. He frowned again at his reflection, twisting around so he could see his backside. His face heated up when he thought about James’--Bucky’s--face tomorrow, at the airport. “Fuck me.”

“That’s the plan!” Darcy called from the kitchen.

“That’s _not_ the plan,” Steve muttered, and told his stomach to calm the fuck down.


	4. Thick Boys

**_Mission AF:_ ** _Hey I forwarded your check-in confirmation._

 **_Mission AF:_ ** _I already checked you in. I hope that’s ok?_

Bucky clicked off the lights in his apartment and locked the deadbolts behind him. He grinned down at the carefully typed messages. _Where even was the hyphen??_

 **_Bucky:_ ** _No prob. See you soon_

He should not be this fucking excited about this. _He should not be this fucking excited about this._

Maybe if he told himself that enough, it would sink in.

“It’s just a job, like any other job,” he muttered.

 **_Mission AF:_ ** _Can’t wait._

Bucky’s traitorous heart skipped a beat. “Fuck.”

…

Bucky must have gotten through security first, because the gate was nearly empty when he dropped into a seat. He had considered waiting for Steve at the airline counter, but he chickened out at the last minute. He needed a little psyching up before this show got completely on the road.

He was actually surprised though; Steve seemed like the kind to get to the airport two hours early without a hair out of place. He fiddled with his garment bag, reorganized his backpack, and finally went to buy a coffee. Caffeine was good. Caffeine was necessary.

Illegally tight blue denim was waiting for him when he returned to the gate.

_Fucking hell._

“Sorry, I’m late,” Steve said with a sheepish smile. “I got pulled for a random pat down.”

 _Yeah right,_ Bucky thought. _There was nothing random about it._ “It’s fine. Got you a pick me up.” He held out the cardboard cup. “Black, two cancer packets.”

Steve laughed. “Sugar’s bad for you.” He looked around the gate area, and then nodded to an empty pair of seats by the windows.  

“So’s cancer.” Bucky sat down next to him. “And at least with sugar you get...sugar.”

“Well, thanks for enabling my bad habits.” Steve’s smile was warm on his face, and Bucky tried to parse his sudden proximity awareness.

 _It’s too early for this shit,_ he thought. He cleared his throat. “Anytime.”

Steve nudged his garment bag with his toe. “You pack light.”

Bucky shrugged. “It’s an island. How much could you need?”

Steve grimaced. “Tell that to my assistant. My suitcase weighs a ton.”

“Your assistant packed for you?” Bucky tried to hide his smile behind his cup.

“Oh God, I sound like a pretentious douchebag, don’t I?” Steve groaned. “I’m not a pretentious douchebag.” He held up one hand. “I swear.”

“No,” Bucky shrugged again. “You’re an architect. Who specializes in solar energy and atriums.”

Steve pursed his lips appraisingly. “You studied.”

“And _you_ have an assistant,” Bucky grinned. “That wasn’t in the binder.”

“Shit,” Steve’s mouth dropped open, then slammed closed. “Never tell her.”

Bucky laughed. “She that scary?”

“You have no idea,” Steve muttered. “Her name is Darcy, by the way.” He scrolled through his phone and found a picture.

Bucky nodded. “Very pretty.” And she was; long thick curls and wide, mischievous smile. She was draped over Steve’s back with such familiarity it gave him pause. “Was she not available this week or something?”

“What?” Steve frowned in confusion for a second before a bright smile bloomed over his face. It was both terrifying and stunning. “Darcy is _not_ my girlfriend. I mean, obviously.”

“No, not obviously,” Bucky couldn’t help smiling in return, though. Steve’s grin was infectious. “She looks pretty cozy in that picture.”

“That’s because she thinks she’s my mother and my sister and my therapist, all rolled into one.”

“Sounds like a good friend,” Bucky said, glancing up when their boarding group was called.

“She’s my best friend, but I will deny to my very last breath if you tell her I said so.” Steve stood, bending over to grab Bucky’s garment bag. “She’s unbearable enough the way it is.”

“Let me have that,” Bucky admonished, feeling flustered at Steve’s wink when he handed it over. _The pretty Darcy is not his girlfriend. Obviously._

_What did that even mean?_

Steve motioned for Bucky to go first, smiling at the sleepy rumpledness of him. He was still the same effortlessly gorgeous that would probably make Steve cross-eyed before the week was through, but the soft tiredness around Bucky’s eyes and his slow, quiet smiles were doing something strange to Steve’s blood pressure.

He watched with no small slice of envy as Bucky charmed the flight attendant into hanging his garment bag in their coat closet.

“How did you do that?” He asked, when Bucky joined him at their seats.

Bucky raised both brows, passing him one of the water bottles the attendant had given him. “What?”

“Don’t play coy with me, Barnes,” Steve grumbled, sliding into the window seat.

Bucky smirked. “You just have to be polite.”

“I’m guessing your face doesn’t hurt either.”

Bucky choked on his first sip of water and Steve smacked him on the back.

“Easy, Romeo.”

“You just sit back and be quiet before TSA decides to pat you down again.” Bucky wiped his mouth and wondered where this bold and flirty Steve had come from, and whether he was going to stick around.

Becca’s first mission report might be very interesting indeed.

Steve busied himself stowing his iPad and water in the seat pocket while the plane completed boarding. He scowled at Bucky slouched beside him, ninety-nine percent more comfortable than he was, in casual black joggers and a soft, faded t-shirt that hugged him like a second skin. His silky, dark hair was scrunched up high on his crown in the kind of soft bun that looked ridiculous on plenty of men, but on Bucky just emphasized his bone structure. Steve fidgeted, part jealous, part irrationally turned on.

Bucky glanced at him. “You’re not a nervous flyer, are you?”

“What? No.” Steve squirmed again. “My jeans are too tight,” he muttered.

Bucky laughed and then nearly gave Steve a heart attack when he reached across his hips and fastened his seatbelt for him.

“Thanks,” Steve breathed, and willed his dick to stand down.

“Don’t mention it,” Bucky grinned. “Nice jeans, though. You look--” He seemed to falter and then regroup. “You look good.”

“So do you,” Steve blurted, and felt his neck burn. _Smooth, Steve._ “Darcy picked them out.”

“Remind me to send her a thank you note,” Bucky winked. The plane started to taxi, and he sat back and closed his eyes.

There was something about the set of his jaw that had Steve nudging his elbow. “Are _you_ a nervous flyer?”

Bucky chuckled but didn’t open his eyes. “Bit, yeah.” He nudged back. “I’ll be okay once we level out.”

Steve gave prudence’s warning about two seconds of attention before he wrapped his fingers around Bucky’s and squeezed. “Want me to tell you a story?”

Bucky squeezed back and then held on tight. “Yeah.” His voice was husky.

“Once upon a time there was a very handsome _\--very_ top heavy--boy.”

Bucky snorted. “Go on _._ ”

They were nearly at cruising altitude before Bucky opened his eyes and released Steve’s hand. He didn’t even have time to feel embarrassed before Steve was pouting beside him.

“I hadn’t gotten to the good part yet.”

“Oh trust me, you’ll get your shot. I think we have two more takeoffs,” Bucky laughed softly.  

Steve’s smile was kind. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” Bucky nodded. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Us thick boys got to stick together.”

Bucky felt laughter bubble up through his chest unexpectedly, and he had to palm a hand over his face to gain control lest Steve see his ridiculously smitten grin. “Speak for yourself, Rogers.”

Steve cocked his head. “You _have_ seen your own ass, right?”

“I’m breaking up with you,” Bucky grumbled, taking a drink of water so he had something to do with his hands. If his _ass_ wasn’t strapped to this seat, he thought he might float into space. Funny, openly frisky Steve Rogers was going to be a real problem.

“So, kissing.”

“What?” Bucky asked, head whipping around.

Steve shrugged. “We just broke the first PDA barrier. I thought maybe we should talk about the rest.”

Bucky rubbed his forehead. “Actually I think you just broke my brain.”

Steve side eyed him. “I could kiss it and make it better?”

“Stop,” Bucky laughed. “Buy a thick boy breakfast first, at least.”

“Okay.” Steve nodded. “Okay. Breakfast, then kissing.” He rubbed his hands together. “This is a pretty good flight.”

Bucky’s mouth worked, and then suddenly his stomach swooped as the plane hit a patch of turbulence. He was clutching Steve’s hand between once bouncing air pocket and the next. “ _Shit_.”

“Sorry,” Steve’s voice was right next to his ear. “I felt it coming and was trying to distract you.”

Bucky wished he was brave enough to open his eyes and gaze into Steve’s; they were probably amazing at this distance. “It almost worked.”

Steve chuckled against his skin and Bucky shivered. “We can still talk about kissing, after breakfast.”

Bucky swallowed. “Promises, promises.”

After that single patch of turbulence, the remainder of the flight was smooth and uneventful; Steve was almost disappointed except that a relaxed and happy Bucky should be his top priority. _Bad Steve._ He _was_ happy about their new equilibrium, though. In the coffee shop, Bucky’s blatant sexuality and almost predatory skill at knocking Steve off balance had given him pause; it was hotter than hell, but disconcerting. He was glad to know Bucky had a soft side, too, and that he wasn’t afraid to let Steve take the reins.

And that was a line of thinking that was dangerous indeed.

As they crossed the Pacific, Bucky slept, then Steve slept, then once they were both awake they watched a movie on Steve’s iPad.

Steve handed Bucky one of his earbuds. “Not a word,” he said when he felt Bucky’s sideways glance during the opening credits of Tangled.

Bucky smiled and leaned into Steve’s shoulder.

Much later, Steve would remember that moment, that window of time when they were new and unsure and eager, and how the plane had broken cloud cover so that they could see it down below.

Paradise.


	5. Toiletry Bag of Evil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You GUYS. This whole thing started out as a therapy piece because lemonsorbae and I were horny (again) over Bucky and Steve, and now we're all of us here together in some kind of giant, mutually beneficial feeder loop of comments and chapters. I'm humbled and in awe of you for reading this increasingly hot mess. #blessed

“How’re you holding up?” Steve asked, as they gathered their bags. Bucky had practically climbed into his lap when they took off in the charter plane that brought them to the island of Kadavu, but he seemed no worse for wear now, smiling and joking with their guide. The look Bucky shot him was dry, and Steve laughed. “At least you’re on land, right?”

“Amen to that,” Bucky exhaled. “And thanks for, you know, the lap service.” His smile was simple and unabashed, and completely painless to respond to in kind.

“And just think,” Steve teased. “We don’t have to do it again for at least seven days.”

“For the love of Pete,” Bucky groaned. “Why would you say that?”

Steve laughed and ran a hand down his back. _Because I’m an awful person and I liked it._ Through the thin t-shirt, Bucky’s skin was heated and damp. “This last one’s just a boat. Boats are good, right?”

Bucky nodded. “Boats are great. Let’s take a boat back to New York.”

“That would be quite a trip.” _Don’t tempt me,_ was what Steve really meant.

They had to wade out to where their boat was moored, and Steve played up his offense when Bucky laughed at him trying to bend over to roll up the hem of his pants.

“Here, let me get that for you.” Bucky squatted in front of him, peering up through his lashes. “Wouldn’t want you to cut off any important circulation.”

“I’m never listening to Darcy’s wardrobe advice again,” Steve muttered, nervous butterflies beating in his chest as Bucky’s fingers grazed his ankles, then his calves.

“Bite your tongue,” Bucky murmured, giving Steve’s leg a final, lingering pat. He fingered the hem of Steve’s tee when he stood. “This? Worth every penny.”

Steve swayed forward, eyes caught on Bucky’s tongue as it darted out to wet his lips.

“You fellas ready?” Nico, their guide, asked, waving them into the water.

“Yeah,” Steve replied absently, thinking about the smell of Bucky’s shampoo and the feel of his hands grazing his skin. And kissing. They still needed to talk about kissing.

He blinked when he felt Bucky’s hand on his hip, nudging him forward.

“C’mon, you can make me nervous just as well in the boat as you can standing here on shore,” Bucky muttered.

Steve nearly stumbled, smiling his thanks when Bucky steadied him. “I can’t tell who’s making who nervous at this point.”

“Yeah?” Bucky nearly preened in the bright sunshine and Steve laughed.

“Oh jeez, forget I said anything.” They sloshed through the cool water, toes sinking in the soft sand.

“I mean, to be fair, those jeans probably _are_ limiting the oxygen to your brain,” Bucky added, tongue tucked firmly in his cheek.

“All right, all right,” Steve muttered with a soft snort. “You better enjoy the view while you can, I don’t plan on wearing them long.”

“That’s--” Bucky shook his head and huffed. “That’s not helping.” Steve jumped when he slapped him on the ass. “But in the interest of science, go on up ahead so I can be sure.”

“You’re a menace,” Steve grumbled, but he gamely trudged through the water without him, pausing when he reached the yacht’s ladder to pop one hip. “So?”

Bucky’s face was serious, contemplative. “Data inconclusive. Bend over.”

Steve’s laugh rang out. “Fuck you.”

 _I think I’m trying,_ Bucky thought, headspace cloudy and warm.

Once their gear was stowed in the cabin, Niko gave them bottles of water and encouraged them to sit back and enjoy the ride.  “It’s about forty minutes to the island,” he added. “And if you’ve got a camera, best to get it out now. The views are spectacular, all the way home.” He climbed the ladder to the fly bridge with a little salute.

“I do actually, but it’s in my bag.” Steve said absently, running a hand along the bright fiberglass sides of the yacht, and then along the shiny railings.  

Bucky could practically feel his excitement as he watched him circle, picking up a tow rope and turning it over in his hand, then moving to a cushion, leather warmed from the sun. He cleared his throat. “You find us a spot on the forward deck, and I’ll get your camera.”

“Forward?” Steve looked up.  

“Forward,” Bucky pointed, then gestured behind them. “Aft. Port, Starboard.” He nodded at the enclosure in front of them. “And this is the cockpit, with the cabin below.”

“I can get it,” Steve started to say, but Bucky was already squeezing behind him, giving him a gentle push.

“So can I,” he winked. He handed Steve his water. “Take this. You have a hat? Sunglasses?”

Steve’s smile was so bright and clear it actually hurt a little bit to look directly into it. “Yeah, same bag. Thanks, Buck.”

In the cockpit, Bucky retrieved his own hat and glasses, smiling when he unzipped Steve’s suitcase. The clothing inside was folded with military precision, all the other bits and bobs tucked into uniformly shaped bags. He found what he needed quick enough, only pausing once at a clear zippered pouch of toiletries that held a brightly hued bottle. Sunscreen probably wouldn’t be a horrible idea and he hadn’t actually thought to pack any himself. He unzipped the pouch and pulled it out, causing the contents to shift and reveal another, smaller bottle underneath. He froze at the partially visible _glide_ on the label and it took a torturously long beat to find enough spit to swallow again.

That was. That was… a lot.

 _A lot_ a lot.

He had to reach down and resituate himself in his pants. And then sit on the floor and reevaluate his life--and this job--for about a minute and a half. One--Steve was hot as fuck. And _nice_. And funny, and unassuming, and exactly the kind of guy Bucky hadn’t met yet but always wished he would.

But two--He was paying Bucky to be here. So how much of the nice was actually Steve and how much was Best Behavior Client Steve was debatable. If he was brutally honest with himself, probably sixty-forty at this point.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It might not even be about me.” He tucked everything back into Steve’s bag the way he had found it, making sure the lube was hidden from view. “Maybe he’s a healthy masturbator,” he said under his breath, frowning at all the zippered bags.“Or maybe he brought a favorite toy.” And wasn’t _that_ just a goddamned rabbit hole. He caught his reflection in a small, round mirror, grimacing at the excited color in his cheeks. “You don’t snoop through people’s private things and you don’t sleep with paying clients,” he said sternly.

He didn’t wait around to see his reflection’s response, but zipped up the suitcase and fled the cockpit.

On deck, Steve’s long, muscular legs were stretched out in front of him, his face tipped up to the sky. He was leaning back on his great big hands, eyes closed and smiling, that damn t-shirt so tight Bucky could see every dip and ripple and curve, and he was by God going to have nightmares about this. He should just throw himself overboard now.

_Who the fuck packs lube for a trip with their pretend boyfriend?_

_Fuck fucking fuckety fuck--_

“Find them?” Steve’s voice was as warm as the sun, sweet like honey and enveloping Bucky tight as a vise.

“Yes.” Bucky ground his teeth together, when the word came out too harsh. “Yeah, got ‘em.” Luckily Steve didn’t seem to notice, not moving even a muscle as Bucky sat down behind him. Against his better judgement _(aw hell, who was he kidding, his hands were practically shaking at the chance)_ , Bucky popped the top on the sunscreen and poured some into his palm. “I’m going to grease you up, Rogers.”

Steve groaned at the first slippery fingers on his neck. “Dig in a little there, Buck, I’m still tense from the flight.”

Bucky’s eyes crossed and he had to count backwards in his head. His stupid hands did what they were told, way before he got to one. _If he takes his shirt off, I’m throwing_ ** _him_** _overboard,_ Bucky thought desperately. Steve shuddered and then laughed when Bucky slipped the pads of his fingers over his ears.

“My ears are sensitive.” Steve tilted his head in Bucky’s direction with a grin, and Bucky froze when he leaned into him, easy as nothing, and kissed him softly on the lips.

“I--” Bucky tried to remember words.

“Was that all right?” Steve whispered, the tiniest furrow between his brows. “Nico was watching.”

“No, yeah, of course,” Bucky mumbled, covering his reaction by running a damp finger down Steve’s already pink nose. “You’re going to burn, white boy.”

Steve screwed his eyes closed. “Cream me up, then, Barnes.”

“Aw, man, don’t say cream,” Bucky muttered, grinning when Steve barked a laugh. “And stop moving before I get this in your eyes.” Steve stilled his face and Bucky continued, taking maybe a hair too long over that pretty jawline, and down the column of his throat.

He should probably be embarrassed at how long he worked the sunscreen along Steve’s exposed collarbone and under the neckline of his tee, but fuck it; he wasn’t the one that packed lube.

Although now he was really wishing he had _._ Among other things.

There was an battle gearing up in Bucky’s head: _You need the money, stop/I’ll get the money some other way, let me have this one goddamn thing._

Steve seemed to relax infinitesimally under his ministrations until he was one giant malleable hunk, head nestled in Bucky’s lap. Bucky carefully tucked the sunglasses over Steve’s eyes and behind his ears, unable to resist running his thumb along his lower lip. He wondered if he could pretend Nico was watching and kiss him again.

Steve smiled under his fingers. “Thanks. I’ll get up in a minute,” he yawned.

“You’re fine,” Bucky murmured, setting the sunscreen beside him on the bench and picking up Steve’s camera. “Do you mind if I snap some pics?”

“Mm hmm,” Steve shook his head. “Snap away.”

Well, the first one was of Steve, of course. But then he concentrated on the gorgeousness of the scenery as it gently flew past; green green islands and water an impossible, impossible shade of blue. He tried to imagine what Steve would see through the camera’s lens, what he would find worthy of a shot, and spent more time than he might have otherwise, setting up his compositions.

“Let me take one,” Steve murmured, hand tugging on the strap.

Bucky’s twisted his mouth considering him. “You’re not going to do a bad chin angle of me, are you?”

Steve chuckled, the sound vibrating through Bucky’s leg. “You don’t have any bad angles, Buck.”

“Mmm,” Bucky shrugged. “You haven’t seen me before coffee.”

Steve tugged on the camera again. “Then ask me again next week. I have seven sleeps to see all your bad angles.”

“You’re actually scaring the shit out of me right now, you know that.” Bucky complained, passing Steve the camera.

Steve slipped his sunglasses on top of his head before bringing the viewfinder to his eye. He didn’t even try to hide the fact that the picture was composed entirely of Bucky’s face. _Click._ He squinted at the review image on the screen. “Perfect.” He dropped the glasses back into place and pushed the camera into Bucky’s hands again. “And I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Bucky let the swaying movement of the boat, and Steve’s hidden eyes, lull him into a sense of security. “I’m talking about you and the way you don’t need to pay someone to be your date for a week.” If Steve reacted, Bucky couldn’t feel it.

After a moment Steve shrugged. “My friends make me crazy.”

“Everyone’s friends make them crazy.”

Steve laughed softly. “Not this kind of crazy.” He pursed his lips. “Tony--who’s the one footing the bill for this island, and the one getting married--has been one of my best friends for most of my adult life. But he’s been trying to pair me off since I was twenty-five.”

“None stuck?”

Steve snorted. “Since most were the wrong gender, no.”

“Ahh,” Bucky nodded. “Got it. But he knows now.”

“Oh yeah, he knows now,” Steve grimaced. “I love him, but if he throws one more GQ model or astronaut or _God,_ senator, at me I’m going to break something very expensive. Probably his face.”

Bucky thought for a moment. “So you wanted to prove you could find someone on your own?”

“No,” Steve sighed. “Yes. Maybe.”

“You can definitely find someone on your own, Rogers. Give me a thick break.”

Steve laughed again, quiet and soft. “You’d be surprised. It’s scary out there.”

Bucky couldn’t see his eyes, but he could feel them, roving over his face. He ran his index finger down Steve’s nose, over his lips, tapping once, then twice. “Okay. I get it.”

Steve’s mouth tightened. “I don’t want their pity. You know?”

And that, that was something Bucky completely understood. “Yeah. I do.”

“Land ho!” Nico called, smiling wide and pointing.

Steve sat up and they watched the island grow bigger as they approached.

Bucky’s hand snuck around his waist and squeezed. “This week, you can be whatever boyfriend you want to be, okay? I’ll have your back.”

Steve’s slow grin made Bucky’s heart skip a beat. “You may be sorry you said that.”

“I won’t,” Buck said, but he pushed the limits of his own endurance by tipping forward and kissing the corner of his mouth. “I’ve got you.”


	6. Practice Makes Perfect

“The main house is right up that path, Mr. Rogers,” Nico smiled. “I’ll just take your bags to your bure.”

“Bure?” Steve tilted his head. 

“Like a bungalow,” Bucky murmured. “A little beach hut.”

“You’re number six. You definitely have the best view!” Nico called as he disappeared down a different, torch-lined path. 

Steve stared down at the neatly laid pavestones. “I changed my mind. Let’s go home.”

“Nuh uh.” Bucky grabbed him by the elbow to propel him forward. “I ain’t getting back on that toy plane.”

Steve resisted. “I think I’m having a panic attack.” His tone was humorous, but his eyes were wild enough to give Bucky pause. 

“Okay, okay.” He slid his hand down Steve’s elbow to play with his fingers. He looked around them and spotted a third path to the right, disappearing into dense foliage, and gave Steve’s hand a tug. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?” Steve muttered, feet dragging. “The house is that way.”

“We’re un-panicking you,” Bucky threw over his shoulder. He kept Steve’s fingers tightly wound within his own as they trekked deeper into the thick green of tropical palms and underbrush. Maybe a hundred yards in, the path opened up to a small clearing, a waterfall filling a natural pool of deep turquoise water. The waterline was edged with flowering plants in riotous colors. 

Steve felt his anxiety lessen almost immediately. “Holy cow.”

“For real,” Bucky murmured, taking a moment to just breathe it all in. When he turned to face him, Steve flinched. “Okay, let’s work on that,” he frowned. 

Steve grimaced. “Sorry, nervous.”

“I know,” Bucky said soothingly, taking both of Steve’s hands in his. He pulled him a step closer. “But if we were  _ really _ together, you wouldn’t flinch when I touched you.” He ran his hands up, lightly scaling those gorgeous biceps. “You wouldn’t be surprised when I do this.” He leaned into Steve’s broad chest, exhaling slowly for a beat before dragging his lips along Steve’s jaw. He could feel Steve trying to not to stiffen. “Relax,” he breathed, going in again, this time nudging under Steve’s ear. He touched the hot skin there with the tip of his tongue and Steve practically jumped out of his skin. He straightened. “Too much?”

“Again,” Steve said, eyes glinting, squaring up as if for a fight. 

Bucky snorted. “You literally don’t know the meaning of relax, do you?” He cocked his head. “How much do you care if we postpone the meet cute with your friends?”

“Zero,” Steve said a little desperately, and Bucky smiled. 

“Good. We need the practice.” He palmed Steve’s waist, sliding around to his back to familiarize himself with the feel of his proportions, the drag of the shirt on his too-hot skin. “It needs to be second nature, muscle memory. Leaning into my touch,” Bucky murmured, circling behind him, grazing the small of his back with one fist. “Because if I were really your boyfriend, I would never stop touching you. Would want you to always remember, associate this,” he kissed the back of Steve’s neck, fitting their bodies together for a tantalizing few seconds. “With all the other ways we’re good together.”

Steve twitched, then tilted his neck to give him better access, eyes falling closed. “And would we?” He asked huskily. “Be good together?”

Bucky had to take a minute to breathe, stepping back. “Yeah,” he whispered, running his fingers up over the exaggerated angles of Steve’s back. “Your lats are  _ insane _ .”

Steve chuckled, breath erratic. “You’re pretty good at this,” he murmured, his original anxiety replaced by a deep, burning heat within his gut. “Deal with crazy clients often?” 

“Occupational hazard,” Bucky joked, leaning in to kiss his neck again.  _ Not even a flicker, _ he noted with satisfaction. He turned Steve to face him and brought Steve’s hands to his chest. “Touch me, get used to how I feel,” he urged softly. “It needs to be second nature, reaching for me, knowing I’m right there. That you can.” He sighed and closed his eyes when Steve’s hands began to move. “Remember what I feel like, that you want it.”

“I’m not going to forget that,” Steve murmured, suddenly obsessed with the muscle movement under his palms. He was desperate to see it, to watch Bucky’s skin shift under his hands and he tugged at the hem of Bucky’s tee. “Can I take this off?”

“Sure,” Bucky’s breath was strangled, but he lifted his arms and let Steve drag the t-shirt over his head. The small clearing was mostly shaded, the tropical canopy sheltering them from the midday sun. It was a hothouse, humid, and so, so lush, but gooseflesh peppered Bucky’s skin anyway, mostly from the heat in Steve’s eyes. There were alarms going off in Bucky’s head.  _ Slow down, Barnes, it’s still a job. _ He sucked in a breath when Steve ran a finger up his sternum. 

“Jesus, Buck.”

It was Bucky’s turn to flinch when Steve dipped his head to kiss his collarbone. “Sorry,” he muttered with a huff. “More.” He could feel Steve’s smile against his skin and had to swallow a groan when he felt the sharp scrape of teeth. “ _ Shit. _ ” He was in too far now, their little game a rapid downhill slide, and it was all he could do not to drag Steve’s mouth to his and devour him whole. 

“Still alright?” Steve whispered, hands still roaming over his waist, his back, down, down, down to cup his ass. 

Bucky sank his teeth into the juncture of Steve’s neck and shoulder and sucked, hard, instead of answering. 

“Holy  _ fuck _ ,” Steve groaned, hands tightening on Bucky’s hips. 

“Found ‘em!” 

It took a moment for the voice to clear the fog of lust clouding Steve’s brain. When he straightened, Bucky’s eyes were glazed, his color high. He ran his knuckles across his cheek and smiled, before he turned to face the music. “Maria, Bruce,” he sighed at his two friends, then bent to retrieve Bucky’s shirt from the ground. 

“Oh hey, don’t do that on our account. This island is clothing optional,” Maria grinned. 

Bruce frowned. “No it’s not.”

“Really?” Maria glared.    

A second group of voices approached, and Bucky shook out his shirt, took his time turning it right side out, shooting Maria a wink. 

“I knew I should have brought snacks,” a petite redhead muttered. 

_ Natasha, _ Bucky thought, cataloguing the others in their little rescue party from the information in Steve’s binder.  _ Maria-- _ Wall Street;  _ Bruce-- _ MIT. Then there was Tony Stark--whom Bucky had enjoyed filling in all the blanks in Steve’s dossier by visiting the numerous gossip sites devoted to the filthy rich bachelor scientist--and the tall, cool blonde at his side, Pepper, his CFO. 

“Really, Steve? You couldn’t keep it in your pants for ten more minutes?” Tony complained, but instead of disappointment, delight colored his tone. He surged forward to grab Steve in a hard hug. “I’m so damn proud right now.”

“Shut up, Tony,” Steve chuckled, any lingering embarrassment obliterated by a wash of affection. 

Tony released him and squeezed his face between both hands. “And you’ve already got some color!” Bucky snorted, drawing Tony’s attention. “And you! You must be James.”

Bucky reached out one hand, tossing his shirt over his shoulder. “Bucky Barnes.” 

“Bucky, right,” Tony shook with a grin. “And now that you’ve already blessed us with your excessive displays of PDA, introductions!”

Bucky was passed from person to person, hand squeezed, cheeks kissed, and once, his ass groped, until his head spun. He looked around for Steve, overwhelmed. 

“All right, all right, give him back,” Steve said. There was a bit of an earthy growl in his tone when he addressed Nat. “Hands above the waist, Romanov.” 

“Just checking,” Nat purred, coming up on her toes and pressing a quick kiss to his lips. 

“No,” Bucky said when she dropped back to her heels. 

Nat grinned in response. 

“Where’s Sam?” Steve asked, sliding a hand around Bucky’s waist. Bucky was right; he felt calmer the instant they were in contact. 

“He and Clint are locked in some kind of epic chess battle up on the porch. Because they’re a hundred.” Tony dismissed them with a wave of his hand.  

“This is so beautiful,” Pepper sighed, indicating the little lagoon with a nod. She glanced around at the group with a smile. “Would it be weird if we swam?” 

“Heck no, let’s swim!” Tony enthused, stripping off his pants and shirt in record time and taking off for the water, pulling a laughing Pepper behind him. 

It broke whatever remaining tension remained and the others began to disrobe, most already in bathing suits. 

Steve watched them in consternation. “I--our suits are in our bags.” 

“Clothing optional!” Maria chirped, dropping her sundress to the grass and revealing a tiny black bikini underneath. 

Nat shot her a wry grin. 

“What?” Maria asked. “It was worth a shot.”

“C’mon Rogers,” Bucky teased. “Live a little.” And he unbuckled Steve’s belt. 

It took every last ounce of Steve’s willpower to smile and allow it, to not react in a strong and visceral way, although he knew Bucky could feel the tremble under his skin. 

“You’re not commando under there, are you?” Bucky murmured against his ear. 

Steve’s closed his eyes and swallowed. “In these jeans? I’d be chafed raw.”

Bucky snorted and slapped his butt. “Then strip down, Rogers. Let’s get wet.” 

Steve couldn’t withhold a groan at Bucky’s filthy little smile. “I hate you.” But then Bucky was shirtless  _ and _ pantless, tight black boxer briefs leaving nothing to imagination, and Steve was only human. He would follow that body straight into hell, just to get a taste. 

The coolness of the water took care of most of the heat simmering under Steve’s skin, although a new problem arose as he watched his friends thoroughly embrace Bucky into their midst. He watched Bucky push Nat off the ledge under the waterfall, recognized the flash of irritation as simple jealousy. Which was confusing; apparently his mind and body were already in kahoots against his heart--which was screaming for him to slow the fuck down. He was still a client, this was still fake, and it would hurt less when it was over if he could keep a clear head.

He caught Bucky under the waterfall for an impromptu kiss anyway, slippery hands and wet skin and  _ damn.  _ He had meant it to be playful, easy, in full view of the people who knew him best and were naturally curious about this relationship he had somehow kept hidden from them for weeks. 

Bucky blinked when he let him go. “You all right?”

“I--” Steve bit his lip. “No.”

Bucky’s eyes softened. “Okay. Let’s get out of here.” He dragged Steve behind him, ignoring the catcalls and hooting as they gathered their things and left the others behind. 

“Dinner’s at eight!” Tony yelled. 

...

Cottage number six nearly pushed Steve over the edge again. “Oh my God,” he said. 

It was beautiful, and Nico hadn’t been kidding. The doors to the lanai opened up on the most spectacular ocean view Steve had ever seen: a crescent of white sand beach bordered the clear turquoise waters, deep green islands dotting the horizon beyond. The interior of the bure was finished in dark hardwoods and airy, sheer linens, and the biggest damn bed Steve had ever seen took prominence in the room. The coverlet was currently strewn with petals, and a bucket of iced champagne sat upon the nightstand. 

“Tony doesn’t play around,” Bucky muttered, easing past Steve to run his hand along the flowers, stirring their intoxicating fragrance in the air. 

“I think I need to sit down,” Steve said, a touch desperate, and Bucky chuckled. 

“It’s just a bed. We knew it was coming.”

“I know, but I didn’t, I just--” Steve ground his teeth together. “It’s a lot.”

Bucky watched him. They had been playing hard and fast with the rules all day, and it was impossibly perfect,  _ Steve _ was impossibly perfect, and it sucked balls that the one thing he wanted was the thing he couldn’t have. It was fast becoming imperative to tread lightly. “We’ll swap. That hammock on the lanai looked pretty comfy.”  __

“I’m not making you sleep on the porch,” Steve muttered, rubbing a hand across his eyes. “I’m being stupid.”

Bucky exhaled before he crossed the room, pulling at Steve’s neck until his forehead rested on his shoulder. He rubbed circles between his shoulder blades, felt Steve instantly relax.  _ This, he could have. _ “It’s fine. We’ll manage.” 

“Yeah?” Steve didn’t lift his head, leaned a little heavier against him. 

“Yeah,” Bucky said, and sent up a little prayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fam. I apologize for the brief and unexpected interlude--I've been sick with the summer cold to end all colds. Most of this chapter was written in a fever dream and it's taken me two days to get it back down to something marginally coherent. I don't know what it says about me that in between the cups of juice and chicken noodle soup I'm still prewriting porn.


	7. Hot Architect and the Shitty, Shitty Liar

Bucky cracked open the bottle of champagne, filling both of the glasses on the nightstand. Steve was in the shower, saying he felt like he needed to wash away the day’s travel, and the sunscreen. Bucky didn’t try to dissuade him, even though he kind of liked the coconuty smell of him. He was like a walking, talking dessert. 

Steve proved his point by returning to the room clad only in a towel. 

Bucky downed the first glass. 

Steve raised his brows. “Everything okay?”

“Yup,” Bucky nodded, tipping the bottle to fill it again. “When in Rome.”

Steve frowned, accepting the glass Bucky held out to him. “When’s the last time you ate?”

Bucky took another long drink; he could smell Steve’s stupid shampoo. “Somewhere over Hawaii, I think.”

“Alrighty then.” Steve took a sip, and then easily slid Bucky’s glass out of his hand. 

“Hey--”

“Let’s get some solid food in you, how about that?”

Bucky huffed. “I’m not going to get drunk on two glasses of champagne.”  _ I wish. _

“Maybe not.” Steve shrugged, taking another sip and setting both glasses aside. “But you’re not only hungry, you’re jetlagged, and probably dehydrated.” He walked over to the closet and began to rifle through his suitcase. “And I’d feel better if you ate something first.”

_ Well, I’d feel better if you’d put on some pants, _ Bucky scowled. He watched Steve hang a few shirts in the closet, thoughtful and neat as a pin, turning down collars, smoothing barely-there wrinkles. “Wear the turquoise,” he said, mouth immediately snapping shut. 

Steve turned around. “Yeah?”

A slightly damp, towel-wearing Steve meant Bucky retrieved his glass of champagne and sucked it dry.  _ Better the glass than-- _

“Buck.” Steve’s face was the picture of disappointed admonition. 

“I was thirsty.”  _ Thirsty. Ha. Ha.  _

“Then drink some water,” Steve laughed. 

“Think I’ll shower,” Bucky muttered, but he wandered over to their open doors, the cool blue of the ocean beckoning. “Or maybe swim.” 

“Oh no,” Steve said, catching him on the threshold with a hand on his arm. “Can’t have my boyfriend drown on the first day.”

Bucky stared at Steve’s hand, mostly so he wasn’t staring at his body. His mouth felt disconnected from his brain, like the words were coming out before he’d fully thought them. “I feel weird.”

Steve tugged, pulling him back into the room. “You’re just tired,” he said gently. “It’s been a really long day.” Instead of directing Bucky to the en suite, he urged him to the bed. “Why don’t you lie down, have a nap. We have time.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky said irritably. Steve’s answering chuckle was infuriating, but he couldn’t string his thoughts together coherently enough to figure out why. When Steve sat on the edge of the bed and pulled him down beside him, it seemed infinitely easier to go with it rather than fight.  _ Maybe he was a little tired.  _

It took almost no effort for Steve to negotiate his head onto a pillow. “I sleep on the left,” Bucky muttered, turning onto his side and fighting to keep his eyes open. He felt the bed dip as Steve settled behind him. “If you get in bed with me in that towel, m’not responsible for my actions,” Bucky mumbled, eyes too heavy to keep open. “You suck,” he added, the words slurring as he exhaled.

Steve snorted and combed his fingers through his crown. “Sometimes,” he quipped. “Sleep.”

…

Bucky dragged his eyes open then squeezed them shut again, lamplight piercing his skull. “Ow.”

“Morning, Sunshine,” Clint said from a wicker chair in the corner. He tossed the book he’d been reading to the top of the bookcase. “Good to see you’re still kickin’.”

“Wha--?” Bucky scrubbed his face. “M’dreaming.”

Clint laughed. “Nope. You’re just this damn lucky.”

Bucky scraped at his face again and then sat up, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs from his brain. “What the fuck are you doing here?” He glanced around, but they were alone, the setting sun casting a warm glow over the room.

“Not escorting.” Clint cocked his head. “You?”

Bucky groaned and fell back against the bed. He blinked up at the ceiling for a moment. “Where’s Steve?”

“You mean Hot Architect?” Clint came to the bed and sat down, nudging Bucky over. “Oh, he might be up at the inn. Fixing his boo bear a plate of food.” He walked two fingers up Bucky’s chest, laughing when Bucky slapped them away. “Funny thing, that. I’ve known Steve now for...two years? Ever since Nat and I started--” He shrugged. “Well that’s not important. What’s important is that I don’t remember Steve ever mentioning his long-haired, Brooklyn-born, handsome as fuck electrician boyfriend Bucky.” He poked Bucky in the ribs. “Weird, right?”

Bucky bit his lip. “Does Steve know?”

“That I know?” Clint shook his head. “Nah, I just told sugar daddy that I would babysit while he ate. Seemed kindest, since he was about to gnaw off his own arm but couldn’t bear to leave his baby all alone in the dark.”

Bucky groaned again, palms covering his eyes, trying to remember what happened before he fell asleep. His arms fell back to the bed with a  _ thump. _ “He’s so fucking hot,” he whined and then huffed a laugh. “He  _ would  _ starve himself out of nobility. Idiot.” 

“Probably,” Clint nodded. “And a body like that probably takes a lot of fuel.” 

“He’s not still in that fucking towel is he?” Bucky asked, horrified, and Clint cackled. 

“Oh Buck.” He shook his head fondly. “So how you wanna play this?”

“Truth,” Bucky muttered, too grateful to pretend he didn’t understand. “I’m a shitty liar.”

“Yes, you are. Truth as in, we served together and never realized our mutual hot-bodied friend?”

Bucky scowled at him. “Yeah. And stop talking about his body.”

“Ooh, is that a spark of jealousy?” He poked him again. “Bucky Barnes, felled by Mr. So Earnest I Could Die in tight shorts.”

“I’m not jealous,” Bucky bit out. Then, “How tight?”

“ _ Tight, _ ” Clint winked. 

Bucky considered the ceiling fan, slowly pushing the humid air above their heads. “I’m going to need about five minutes alone.”

“Nuh un,” Clint laughed. “You can wank off later in the shower. Right now, I have strict orders to deliver you to the man himself, the minute you wake up.”

Bucky grumbled under his breath but climbed out of bed. In the bathroom, he splashed water on his face and then, grimacing at the extremely foul taste in his mouth, left to find his toiletry bag. 

“You still look like shit,” Clint said helpfully. 

“Thanks, asswipe.” 

“Comb your hair!” Clint yelled at his back. 

Teeth brushed, hair combed, deodorant applied, Bucky felt marginally more human. His stomach fluttered as Steve--wet hair, wide shoulders, bare hips-- loomed larger than life in his short term memory. He jabbed at his forehead, eyes squeezed shut. “Get out get out get out.”

Clint leaned against the door jamb. “If you’re done talking to yourself, we should probably get going before Galahad decides to feed you in bed.”

Bucky blanched. “He wouldn’t.”

“Oh, hon,” Clint clucked his tongue. “I think the word  _ cute _ was mentioned.  _ Twice _ .”

“Just go. Go go go.” Bucky pushed him from the room. He didn’t even bother with shoes; it was the tropics. His shoes would just get sandy anyway. He was still enough on the wrong side of fuzzy that sweet caretaker Steve might push him over the edge into seriously bad life choices. 

The island had shifted while he slept, easing into night, the birdsongs changed over to raucous chirping as frogs and insects made their invisible presence known.

Bucky hesitated on the inn’s wide front porch, watching the movement of Steve and his friends through the windows. “I got kicked out of my apartment.”

“Buck--”

“It’s fine. I’ll find something.” He ground his teeth together. “It just sucks, you know? He’s.” He waved his hand in Steve’s direction, too exhausted to describe everything Steve was, or could be. 

“Yeah.”

“And I needed the fucking money, and now I’m here and  _ not _ taking extra jobs at home, so I  _ really _ need the fucking money, and, Jesus.” He raked his hands through his hair. “Fucking  _ life _ .”

“Fucking life,” Clint agreed, clasping a hand to the back of Bucky’s neck. “So you do the job and get the cash, and then when we get home, you get the guy. Easy peasy.”

Bucky laughed softly. “I don’t think it works that way for guys like me.”

“It might.”

Bucky looked at him, eyes serious. “Would you believe a guy who only dated you for your money?”

“Buck.”

“Or would you always wonder. What is it this time? What kind of disaster is he going to be this month?”

“You’re not a disaster,” Clint said, squeezing his neck again. “And give Steve a little credit. He’s one of the good guys.” He grinned and nodded toward the open room just inside the door. “And I mean, five minutes? C’mon.” He admired Steve’s backside as he bent over to fish a beer out of the container of ice. “I wouldn’t last two.”

“Shut up please,” Bucky huffed, but it helped, Clint’s presence a soothing anchor to reality in the middle of the chaos of Bucky’s brain. 

Clint laughed. “Okay. Let’s go get ‘em, tiger.” He pushed open the door. 

Bucky took a deep breath and followed.

“And look what the cat dragged in!” Clint called. 

Steve’s eyes lit up when he saw them. 

Bucky had to push the fluttering butterflies in his throat way, way down. “Hey.” He felt weirdly on display, so he went immediately to Steve’s side, smiling sheepishly. “Sorry.”

“What? No, stop.” Steve’s eyes traced over his face, taking in the sleepworn edges of his expression. “Feeling better?” 

“I’m feeling starved,” Bucky said slowly, eyeballing the buffet behind them, and making sure his mouth had recovered from its pre-nap fuckery. 

“Yeah?” Steve seemed just a little too excited by that, snagging a water bottle and thrusting it into Bucky’s hands before grabbing a plate. “Drink that, and I’ll get you started.”

“Steve! Get back over here and stop mothering, he’s fine,” Tony complained. “We’re itinerary-ing.”

Steve wasn’t phased, snagging one of Bucky’s wrists to keep him close. “I can itinerary from here.” He gave Bucky a stern look. “Drink.”

Bucky grinned and opened the bottle, tipping up and chugging down half. “Better?”

“Hmph,” Steve grunted, and began moving along the table, loading the plate with food. Bucky followed, too self conscious to join the others alone. He gave little cues when Steve pointed, nods for  _ yeah, sure _ , and a grimace for  _ are you kidding me _ , making Steve smile every time.

When they finally joined everyone, the only seat left was a wide double recliner, the cloud soft cushion technically big enough for two grown men, but not without a whole heck of a lot of body contact. Steve seemed nonplussed, though, settling in slightly behind Bucky and tucking him into his side. 

Bucky only paid half attention to the conversation floating around them, senses fogged by a still-pervasive exhaustion, the shifting movement of Steve’s thigh, and the fingers playing with his hair. He hummed around a particularly juicy bite of strawberry. “Mmm.”

Steve leaned slightly forward, expectantly, and Bucky smiled, holding the rest of the berry to his lips. He kept his fingers clear as Steve’s teeth closed around it. 

“Sweet,” Steve murmured, and then nuzzled his temple. 

Bucky caught Clint grinning at them and rolled his eyes. 

“So that’s day one,” Tony clapped his hands. “Who’s with me for sunrise yoga?”

“Yeah I’ll be skipping that,” Clint said. “I’ll meet y’all on the beach at a decent hour. Say, noon.”

“I’m down for yoga,” Bucky said, hesitating when everyone turned to look at him. “What? I have layers.”

Clint snorted. “You remember that one dude in Bagram, who did tai chi every day?” 

Bucky pursed his lips. “The kid from Duluth?” He couldn’t help but admire Clint’s smooth introduction of their friendship into the conversation. 

“Wait,” Pepper’s eyes widened. “You know each other?” 

“Um, yeah. We served together in Afghanistan.” Bucky shoved in another strawberry. He really was shit for lying, so the less he said the better. 

Clint’s grin was wide and innocent. “Small world, huh? That’s why I offered to go check on him. How many Bucky’s from Brooklyn could there be?”

“Small world.” This from Nat, her eyes razor sharp as they flitted between them. Her expression softened when Clint tapped his foot against hers and winked. 

Belatedly, Bucky noticed that Steve had gone still. He cut a cube of pineapple, half turning to hold it to Steve’s lips, one hand cupped under the fork to catch any wayward juice. Steve’s eyes were serious, but he opened his mouth and accepted the fruit, his fingers tangling in the hair at Bucky’s nape. Bucky would have turned back, but Steve held him fast, gaze falling to his mouth. 

Bucky’s nerves were suddenly, vibrantly, alive with how much he  _ wanted;  _ he wanted to feel Steve’s mouth open under his, wanted to taste the sweetness on his tongue, wanted those strong hands to hold him, soft and hard and everything in between. 

But he also wanted to come out of this week unscathed, and so he wavered there, embattled, until Steve relaxed, eyes shifting to a heated debate between Clint and Maria about squid versus octopi, and the moment passed. 

Bucky would say he breathed a sigh of relief, but that would be a lie. 

And he was a shitty liar. 


	8. There's Only One Bed

Darkness had descended over the island by the time they left the main house to turn in for the night. The stillness and the close vegetation lining the path lent an intimacy to the walk that pricked along Steve’s skin. Bucky’s arm brushed his, as they navigated the narrow trail, and maybe he should have been prepared when a second brush of skin had Bucky looping their fingers together.  

“You’re deep thinking,” Bucky murmured. “What rocks are rolling around in that big head of yours?”

Steve lifted his free hand in a wave to Clint and Nat as they turned off the path ahead of them, shrugging as his hand fell to his side. “I think I’m just tired.”

“You can ask, you know.” Bucky’s grip tightened for a split second, and then he released him--there was no need for pretend now that they were alone. 

Steve glanced over, brow furrowed, and took his hand again. He knew it was the right move when Bucky’s lips turned up in the barest ghost of a smile. “So, Clint. He knows?”

Bucky shrugged. “He knows I escort, so the rest wasn’t a huge leap. He won’t say anything though. You don’t need to worry about it.” 

Steve laughed suddenly, shaking his head. “What a stupid coincidence. And how completely typical.”

“Why?” Bucky smiled cautiously, relieved; Steve had been quiet all night.  

“Oh nothing,” Steve mused. “I’m always the one with the shitty luck, that’s all.”

“It’s not, though,” Bucky squeezed his fingers. “It’s not shitty. It’s actually a good thing.”

“How do you figure?” Steve stopped when Bucky turned up the path to their cottage, and tried to tug him in the opposite direction. “Let’s keep walking. I’m not tired.”

Bucky snorted. “You were tired ten seconds ago.”

“Well I’m not now,” Steve insisted stubbornly, jaw firm.  

Bucky’s eyes softened. “You can’t put it off forever, you know. We have to sleep together eventually.”

“I’m not--I don’t,” Steve groaned, ears burning, embarrassed at having been caught in this dilemma. “I’m just pissed off.”

“At me? Why?” 

Bucky’s expression was so perplexed that Steve smiled. “No, of course not at you.” He huffed, thinking the island air might be messing with his head. He felt a little woozy--even though he had drank very little--and he was off kilter, nerve endings sparking with a strange electricity every time Bucky’s smile flashed wide and bright in the dark. “I’m mad about that bed,” he said gruffly. 

Bucky laughed, the soft sound reverberating through Steve’s chest when Bucky leaned in close against his side. “Ah. Yeah, it’s evil, that bed.”

“It is,” Steve ground out. “I can’t--I can’t do it yet.”

“Seriously?” Bucky teased. “Hours after you spooned me in a towel.”

Steve shot him a black look, caught by the blue, blue sheen of his eyes.  _ He was so close... _

“Okay, okay. I mean, I can sleep on the floor?” Bucky offered.  _ Wouldn’t be the first time,  _ he thought.

“ _ You’re _ not sleeping on the floor.”

“But you are?” Bucky’s voice was tinged with irritation, as he realized Steve was more than a little bit serious. “Like hell you are.”

“I can, though,” Steve said. “I don’t mind. Or the hammock--” He ducked his head, hoping if Bucky had seen the hunger in his eyes, he would read it as simple stubbornness. They really should be having this conversation with more than a couple of inches between them. “Although I don’t think we should make a habit of it, someone will get suspicious.” 

“Okay this is ridiculous,” Bucky said, exasperated. “We’re just going to climb in and go to sleep.” He turned to the path and pulled on Steve’s hand. “Come on, Rogers. I’m putting you to bed.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Steve grumbled under his breath, scowling when Bucky shot him a quick grin. 

“Then don’t act like a baby.” When they passed the hammock, Bucky spun around to cross the porch backwards, jabbing a finger at Steve’s chest. “Don’t even think about it.”

Steve held up a hand in surrender, and, seemingly satisfied, Bucky turned and opened the door. 

The room was still faintly scented with the blossoms that were now strewn across the floor from Bucky’s nap. The bedside table lamps were both set to dim, casting a soft glow that really wasn’t helping Steve’s nerves at all; it was an unapologetically romantic hideaway, and it was his bad luck that he was stuck here with the most gorgeous man on earth. 

A gorgeous man who patted him firmly on the butt and pushed him in the direction of the bathroom. “Go brush your teeth, Rogers.”

“Bossy,” he muttered, but did as he was told. He needed a moment’s reprieve anyway, and the en suite bathroom was the only private space he had available--aside from the outdoor freshwater shower, and  _ that _ wasn’t an option right now. He shut the bathroom door and stared at himself in the mirror. “No one is getting naked tonight,” he whispered at his reflection, resolutely ignoring his aching dick in favor of viciously scrubbing his teeth. He then made use of the facilities, washed his hands and face, and finding nothing else to stall with--returned to the bedroom. “All yours,” he said, stopping at the picture Bucky made, silhouetted in the open door. 

Beyond the outline of his body lay the sea, the moon drifting in and out of the clouds, its glow a dance across the crashing waves. The sound was distant, but soothing, and Steve was suddenly very, very tired. 

Bucky turned, frowning when he noticed Steve’s wan expression. “Okay, you. Off with your pants and into the sheets.” He took him by the elbow and guided him to the edge of the bed.

“So romantic, Buck,” Steve muttered, but he pulled his shirt over his head with a little prompting and half-heartedly wiggled his hips to shake his shorts free after a grinning Bucky undid his fly. It was weirdly not erotic at all, and it must have been the exhaustion, because all Steve wanted was to face plant in that cluster of pillows and sleep until next Tuesday. 

He fell onto the bed intending to do just that. 

Bucky laughed and swatted at his bare thighs. “Don’t forget to leave room for me, asshole, or I’m sleeping on top of you.”

“Not funny,” Steve mumbled into the pillow, but he scooted marginally more toward one side of the center.

Bucky snorted. “I guess that’ll have to do.” He reached over to flick off the nearest lamp. “I’m going to jump in the shower.”

When Steve didn’t respond, Bucky smiled and crossed to the closet to dig out a clean pair of underwear. He also closed the front door and latched it--although he didn’t think there was anyone on the island except the wedding party and the staff. He’d been too long a soldier to sleep with the door open, though. 

In the bathroom he ignored his reflection in the mirror and shucked his clothes, not even waiting for the water to fully warm before climbing into the shower. It was almost painful, when he finally got a fist around himself, and he had to bite his lip to hold back a groan.  _ Jesus fuck, what a day. _ He gave himself a few quick strokes, just to quell the frantic need boiling through his gut, and then grabbed a complimentary bottle of conditioner from the marble enclave built into the shower wall. No energy for finesse or elegance, he popped the cap, aimed the coconut scented bottle at his groin and squeezed, hissing at the chill when a stream of the conditioner squirted over his too-hot skin. He almost knocked the bottle to the bottom of the tub at the first slick pull around his dick and he had to scramble to catch it, lest the noise wake Steve in the next room. 

And then he could just concentrate on getting it done. Because there was only so long he could be in the shower before it became suspicious, and he was nothing if not adept at getting himself off in a hurry; again, he had been a soldier for too long. He concentrated on the head, light feathery touches and deep, hard strokes, imagining another hand joining his own. He let his face fall forward, bracing himself against the shower wall and picturing a mouth, sinfully pretty, jawline strong. The water ran into his eyes and his mouth and he spat at one point, forgetting himself and leaning too far to one side, nearly choking on how good it was, how much he needed it. 

He came all over the tile, biting his lip so hard he nearly broke skin, gasping and sputtering and cursing Steve Rogers under his breath. 

He gave himself a count of thirty to get his heartbeat and breathing under control, and then quickly shampooed his entire body, hair too, before rinsing all evidence down the drain. After toweling off, he pulled on the pair of boxer briefs and nothing else; Steve was just lucky he wasn’t naked. 

Thirty seconds later, staring down at Steve’s lightly snoring, stupidly handsome face...he wished he was naked. Hell he wished they were  _ both _ naked and would always  _ be  _ naked. He slid beneath the sheet, and then leaned over Steve’s body to switch off the second lamp. Steve snuffled and blinked, then smiled and wrapped his arms around Bucky’s waist. Bucky huffed as he fell onto him, chuckling as Steve rearranged him until he had him wrapped up, ankles tangled, arm tight around his waist. 

“M’glad you’re here,” Steve murmured, burying his nose in Bucky’s neck. 

Bucky blinked rapidly, eyes suddenly stinging for no explicable reason. 

Steve was snoring again before he had to answer. 

...

**_Becca:_ ** _ You missed your first mission report, Sgt Barnes. _

**_Bucky:_ ** _ Sorry squirt, got tied up _

**_Becca:_ ** _ LITERALLY? {EYES EMOJI} _

**_Bucky:_ ** _ Gross. Stop. _

**_Bucky:_ ** _ Jetlag and then dinner and Steve freaking out _

**_Becca:_ ** _ Do tell.  _

**_Becca:_ ** _ And don’t leave out the good parts! I’m almost 20 James.  _

Bucky grinned, thinking of his shower; he could  _ still _ smell the coconut. It was early yet, the sun barely breaking the horizon, but apparently his nap yesterday afternoon had at least partially reset his internal clock, because he felt alive and awake and ready for whatever mania shirtless Steve was going to throw at him today. He had rolled out from under about two hundred pounds of solid muscle long enough to pee and grab his phone, but sleeping Steve, with his little frown the minute his arms were empty, was enough to coax Bucky back into bed. Behind him, Steve snored on.   _ Not on your life,  _ he typed. 

**_Becca:_ ** _ Ok I’m both horrified and intrigued.  _

**_Becca:_ ** _ Go on… _

**_Bucky:_** _Well. He eats like a horse and his fucking smile, Bec. Jesus._

**_Becca:_ ** _ Hmm. What’s he doing now? _

Bucky grimaced; there was really no unawkward way to tell your baby sister you were being spooned. Minimal details only.  _ He’s still asleep.  _

**_Becca:_ ** _ Okay. Breakfast in bed, and a surprise. Something small and insignificant that he won’t see coming but will absolutely love.  _

Bucky frowned.  _ You’re a little too good at this. _

**_Becca:_ ** _ You’re welcome. _

**_Becca:_ ** _ And Barnes?  _

**_Bucky:_ ** _ Yes, Chief? _

**_Becca:_ ** _ I can read your hearteyes between the lines. Go get em tiger. _

**_Bucky:_ ** _ Why do I feel like you’re my pimp _

**_Becca:_ ** _ I’m your fairy godmother, jerk.  _

**_Becca:_ ** _ Send shirtless pics. _

**_Bucky:_ ** _ You’re grounded. _

Bucky gently unwound himself from a very octopus-like barrage of arms and legs, to go in search of sustenance. 

And a surprise. 


	9. Oh No, He's Hot Redux

“What happened to yoga?” Tony asked, when Bucky walked through the door of the main house.

Bucky froze, having expected everyone else to be like Steve, crashed and suffering the ill effects of time zone travel in the wrong direction. He smiled cautiously at the man seated at the bar. “Sorry, man. Forgot.” He let the screen door close behind him as quietly as possible. “You’re up early.”

Tony shrugged. “Eh. We’ve been here a few days, to get everything in order.” He studied the chunk of mango on his fork. “Steve worn out?”

It was tongue in cheek and just the right side of _maybe I’m teasing/maybe I’m not_ to make Bucky relax. “When I left, he was snoring so loud a flock of birds outside our hut flew off in protest.”

Tony grinned. “To be so pretty, he sure does have a big schnoz.”

Bucky laughed and grabbed two plates from the end of a fully stocked buffet of fruits and pastry.

Tony watched him carefully choose what to add to each plate. “If you want something hot, just tap the kitchen door. Tamar can make anything you like.”

Bucky considered the door; Steve seemed like an egg man. “Thanks.” Instead of knocking, though, he slipped into the kitchen. Tony, with his too-sharp curiosity, made him nervous.  

In the kitchen, Tamar was a bright, happy presence, her glossy, dark hair pulled into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a cheery yellow apron over the deep red of her sundress.

“Well someone is hungry!” She exclaimed, laughing at his two plates.

Bucky grinned. “One is for a surprise.”

“Ahh,” she nodded. “A hot surprise?”

The saucy comment made him laugh, and he relaxed one hip against the sink. “You have no idea.”

Tamar shrugged. “I was here yesterday when you arrived, so I have a little idea.” She held up her thumb and forefinger in measurement, winking when she widened that distance to include both hands, approximately Steve’s shoulder width apart.

Bucky laughed again, and then nodded at the eggs in a basket by the six-burner stove. “Scrambled maybe?”

“How very unadventurous of you.” She went to work cracking several eggs in a pretty glazed mixing bowl. “Fried ham?”

“Sure.” Bucky moved positions, leaning on the counter next to her so he could watch her work. “Let me get settled in, and then you can get as adventurous as you want.”

“Ahh,” she smiled. “An inquisitive palate is a very good thing on the islands.”

The thick cut slices of ham sizzled when they hit the big cast iron skillet, a delicious aroma filling the air.

Bucky’s stomach rumbled, and Tamar laughed. “Eat your fruit while you wait.” When it looked as though he would climb up on the cool granite, she pointed menacingly with a wooden spatula. “Not on my counter.”

Bucky grinned and took the fork she dug out of a nearby drawer. “Yes, ma’am.” He speared a cube of melon and chewed, humming appreciatively at its sweet juiciness.

“You are from the northeast like Tony?”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah, Brooklyn born and raised.”

“I have visited New York City many times.” She winked at his surprised look. “What? You think I’m tethered to this stove?”

“No, I just,” Bucky swallowed a heartfelt grimace. “That _flight._ ”

Tamar threw her head back and laughed. “You poor thing.” She patted his shoulder. “You should have asked your doctor for a Xanax. It goes by like,” she snapped her fingers sharply. “That.”

“You don’t happen to have a spare lying around for the trip home, do you?” Bucky grumbled, frowning at his plate. He sliced a large piece of pineapple in half, chewing it aggressively.

“Unfortunately, no,” she said, and then neatly turned the frothy eggs into a second skillet. Her arm expertly folded the quick-cooking mixture around and around until they were perfect, light and fluffy, a creamy yellow. She motioned for his dishes and Bucky passed them to her one at a time. She portioned out the eggs and added a slice of the ham to each, and then pulled a large tray from an overhead cabinet. She placed on it the plates, silverware, cloth napkins and then added two glasses that she filled with orange juice. “You do have that wonderful distraction to keep you company, at least.”

Her eyes were twinkling when she handed him the loaded tray and Bucky grinned, leaning forward to whisper, “He’s almost as good as Xanax.”

Tamar laughed again, throaty and full, swatting him with a dish towel and pushing him toward the kitchen door. “Go on with you. Enjoy this beautiful day.”

In the living area, Tony’s face was amused. “Good talk with Tamar?”

Bucky felt his face heat up. “She’s great.” He nodded toward the door. “I’m just going to… While it’s hot.”

“It seems there’s a lot that’s hot on this island,” Tony mused as Bucky made his escape. “We’re snorkeling at eleven!” he called to his disappearing form

Bucky carefully made his way down the path, wondering if Steve was awake, chest fluttery and awkward and _dammit,_ he forgot the surprise. _Maybe a pretty shell,_ he thought, _or a flower._ There wasn’t much ‘shopping’ he could manage on an island, after all. His eyes were scanning the trees for a pretty blossom to add to Steve’s tray when his foot nudged against it in the sand: a small piece of driftwood, worn smooth and grey by the salt of the sea, and in the shape of a little house, complete with a tiny ‘chimney’. He carefully knelt down, balancing the tray on one knee and picked it up, shaking it gently to dislodge a dried piece of seaweed.

The bottom was slightly slanted, giving the little house a rakish angle when he set it between their plates. His stomach fluttered again as he slowly climbed to his feet. “Stop that,” he frowned down at himself. “He’s just a guy.”

When he turned up the path to their cottage, he sighed in annoyance. “A really _hot_ guy.”  

He had to blink a few times to adjust to the dimmer light inside the door, but there he was, in his nearly naked glory, stretching languorously across a pile of bright white bedding and smiling sleepily, completely unconcerned about the terrible, awful things his bare chest was doing to Bucky’s insides.

“Where’d you go?” Steve yawned, stretching again and sitting up. He raised both brows when he saw the tray. “What’s this?” His surprised delight was evident, and even as Bucky watched, he tried to tamp it down, tempering the smile that threatened his cautious expression.

“Breakfast,” Bucky said with a brief shrug, slowly crossing to the bed and nodding toward the headboard. “Scoot back.”

“I--” Steve sucked in a deep breath and then did as he was told.

Bucky could feel his eyes on his face, but he couldn’t meet them. Not yet. He fussed with the tray, taking care not to dislodge anything. He started when Steve’s hand reached between the juice glasses to grab the small piece of wood.

“What’s this?” He turned it over in his hands, the smile so evident in the timbre of his voice that Bucky couldn’t wait any longer, he had to see.

“I saw it on the path.” He licked his lips when Steve’s gaze met his. “It’s a little bit crooked.” He took the house from Steve’s hand and set it on the bedside table, smiling when it listed to one side. “I hope the houses you design are a little more…” He tilted his head. “Upright?”

“Most of them.” Steve’s voice was husky and Bucky realized how close they were; he had bent over the bed to settle the tray and never retreated.

“I--” He moved, as if to straighten, and Steve’s hand shot out, to cup around his neck.

“Thank you,” Steve said, and then after an infinitesimal hesitation, kissed him, his lips landing just to the left of Bucky’s mouth.

Bucky did straighten then, _fall back--fall back!_ “You’re welcome.”

There was an awkward beat as they both stared at anything except each other.

“I don’t think I can eat all of this,” Steve mumbled, looking skeptically at two full plates of food.

Bucky chuckled, exhaling in a huff. “One of those is mine, jerk.” And instead of going around to the opposite side of the bed, or the chair, like a sane person, he nudged at Steve’s knee and then sat down beside him. They ate, in silence, eyes colliding occasionally when a sneaking glance forgot to leave the pretty angle of a jawline or the sleep-ruffled cowlick near a temple.

It was torture.

Bucky loved it.

He ached with how simple it would be to lift the tray from Steve’s lap and set it on the floor, and then spread Steve’s body out across the big, white bed, map all of his angles and curves with his hands, and then his mouth. He felt the stirring, deep in his gut, heavy between his legs, and knew he needed to move lest his predicament become impossible to hide. There was a virtual war engaged within himself, his psyche arguing mercilessly with his libido, as his body fought both to stay inside this warm, sweet bubble with Steve and to escape it, seeking freedom.

He downed the last of his juice and stood, staring down at the tray, where Steve was not quite finished. “I’m gonna change, test out that water.” He backed away from the bed, only daring to look at Steve when he had his breathing under control.

Steve was frowning. “Let your stomach rest, first. You just ate.”

“I’ll--” Bucky swallowed, backing up a few more steps before turning toward the closet, and his backpack. “I need to brush my teeth.”

 _Coward,_ Bucky thought as he fled.

…

Steve stared at the door of the en suite, trying to figure out what the _hell_ was going on with his central nervous system: he was hot, and cold, flushed and goosebumped. His heart was racing, and yet thudding slow and hard in his throat. He carefully moved the tray to the mattress and stood, half crossing the room before stopping in his pursuit--what would he say anyway? _Sorry I took your sweet gesture and made it awkward because I can’t keep it in my pants when you’re around?_

He sighed and scrubbed at his face.

The problem was the goddamn money. It felt good to say it, even to himself. He wasn’t stupid--Bucky was clearly doing this job because he needed it, and by caving--one day in!--and offering to throw off their deal, to try and pursue this thing blossoming between them, was tantamount to asking Bucky to give up a decent paycheck. Steve had no idea what had led Bucky into this type of work, what motivated him to take this job, whether it was always like this between Bucky and his clients (and wasn’t that just a kick in the balls), or whether it was necessary, vital in some way for his survival.

He glanced over at the little driftwood house, a sudden ache piercing and sharp in his chest.

The bathroom door opened and he turned, groaning inwardly when Bucky stepped into a shaft of light.

He was luminous, and bare, dressed in the tiniest aqua blue swim trunks Steve had ever seen-- _were they even classified as shorts? How were those shorts?!_ “Uh.” He swallowed. _Good Steve. Great conversation._ “What are you wearing?”

Bucky looked down at himself. “Swim trunks?” The waistband was so low, the cut of his hips drew Steve’s eye like a beacon.

“Where’s the rest of them?” Steve asked, incredulous.

“Just get dressed, Rogers,” Bucky complained, throwing a wadded towel at his stupid handsome face.

“You’re going to need a _lot_ of sunscreen,” Steve muttered as he slammed the bathroom door.

Bucky looked at the closed door and then down at himself, a slow grin spreading across his face. He had spent a solid five minutes in the bathroom, giving himself a pep talk, telling himself it was fine, that Steve’s solicitous, friendly peck on the cheek was clearly as far as he was willing to go. That _Bucky_ was the one who was coming untethered after a mere twenty-four hours and _Steve_ was obviously unaffected by the enforced closeness, by the romance of the island, by _Bucky_. That this was a pursuit he couldn’t possibly hope to win so he might as well give it up and enjoy the free vacation.

But Steve’s agonizingly slow track up his body and the closed bathroom door were clear signs alluding otherwise, and Bucky smiled, hope sparking in his veins. “Game on.”


	10. Wet is good! Wet is helpful!

“Oh thank God, you’re up.” Steve let his forehead fall against the closed cottage door. He had slipped through the bathroom to the outdoor shower, grateful he had managed to sneak his cell phone out with his swim trunks.

“Considering it’s a little after three p.m. in Brooklyn, yes Steve, I’m awake.” Darcy popped her gum. “What’s up?”

Steve frowned when she immediately started to laugh. “What are you laughing at?” He turned away from the door to stare into the overgrown foliage surrounding the shower. Unfamiliar chirps and whistles filled the air, the island birds already in full song for the day.

“You and Mister Tight Tush.” Darcy’s peal of laughter was muffled. “ _Up._ ”

Steve ground his teeth together. “Will you please get a grip?”

“I think the real question is, have _you_ gotten a grip yet?”

Steve should be used to Darcy’s good-natured teasing, but right now he was desperate; he figured he had approximately seven minutes before his overlong bathroom trip became suspicious. “ _Darcy._ ”

“Okay, okay,” Darcy soothed with a chuckle. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s--he’s--” Steve swallowed, envisioning Bucky’s extremely small shorts and extremely muscled thighs. “He brought me breakfast in bed.”

“Oh. Um...”

“And a piece of driftwood, shaped like a little house.”

“Steve.”

“And he has barely any clothes on. Ever.”

“Steve, honey--”

“And! He looks like--when he sleeps, his face is all--” Steve rubbed his mouth with his free hand. “He smells like pancakes and good coffee,” he said in a rush.

Darcy was silent for a beat. “Are you done?”

Steve let the back of his head fall against the door this time. “Yeah.”

“Okay. What are you wearing? Are you naked?”

Steve straightened so fast he nearly choked on his own spit. “ _Darcy!”_

“Little. Driftwood. House, Steve.”

“I’m _not_ naked!” Steve whispered harshly, taking two good, long steps away from the door. “I’m changing into my trunks. We’re going swimming.”

“Okay, see, wet is good! Wet is helpful!”

“Wet is _not_ helpful,” Steve moaned, squeezing his eyes shut. “What am I going to do?”

“Well, I mean--”

“Not that.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“I could hear you thinking it,” Steve scowled, waving the trunks he held at a little green bird getting too close to his bare toes.

“You should hear _you_ thinking it,” Darcy muttered under her breath.

“I’m going back to bed,” Steve muttered. “Play sick.”

“Mmm,” Darcy hummed in approval. “ _Doctor Bucky,_ yessss _._ ”

“ _Oh my God_.”

Darcy snickered, but her tone was fond when she spoke. “Look. Put on those fancy new swim trunks, confident in the knowledge they make your ass look amazing. And take a deep breath. You got this.”

Steve breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, glaring at the bird when it hopped closer. “How do you know they make my ass look amazing?”

Darcy snorted. “I’m hanging up now.”

“Darcy wait!” Steve whispered frantically, panic clogging his throat. His plea was met with the complete and utter silence of dead air and he swore.

The little bird cocked its head.

“You shut up,” Steve grumbled, and went back inside.

...

Bucky was leaning against the doorjamb, his arm propped high on the frame, his body one long line of toned, tanned skin. He turned when he heard Steve, a bottle of sunscreen in his hand.

“I thought you fell in,” Bucky grinned. His gaze tracked appreciatively down Steve’s body, his smile widening when he noted the high color in his cheeks. “Nice trunks.”

Steve flushed pinker. “Thanks.” He did _not_ fidget.

Bucky wiggled the bottle of sunscreen. “You gonna c’mere?”

 _No,_ Steve thought, goosebumps peppering his arms at the huskiness in Bucky’s voice. “Sure.” He chickened out at the last second, though, turning so that they weren’t face to face. _Coward._ He flinched when the first dollop of liquid hit his shoulder.

“Cold?” Bucky murmured.

Steve had to force himself to relax. And damn it, it shouldn’t be like this. They had found a nice equilibrium, before, one he could live with, that they could both handle. They were stuck with each other for six more days--he needed to get a grip. As Bucky’s big hands smoothed the sunscreen across his back and down his biceps with practiced ease, Steve realized he was the only one making it awkward.

“Turn.” Bucky nudged him. He didn’t meet Steve’s eyes, concentrating instead on his task. “You all right?” He asked quietly.

Steve nodded, brain misfiring on an appropriate verbal response when Bucky’s hands trailed low on his abdomen, skirting the elastic waistband of his trunks before slowly moving up to his shoulders. “Yeah,” he managed to say, the words deep and warm. He swallowed. “Do you want me to do you?”

Bucky’s eyebrow quirked, his mouth clearly suppressing a grin. “Sure.” He handed Steve the bottle and turned around.

Steve grimaced at the rush of heat flooding his face and tried to concentrate on his task, quickly and efficiently covering Bucky’s exposed skin with a generous layer of sunscreen. “There, I think you’re good.” He held out the bottle, but Bucky shook his head.

“Bring it with us,” Bucky said, reaching or a tote bag Steve hadn’t even noticed by the door. “We’ll have to reapply in a couple hours anyway.”

“And what are we doing, again?” Steve asked, snapping the bottle’s lid shut as he followed Bucky onto the lanai.

“Snorkeling,” Bucky grinned with a wink, taking the steps two at a time.

“Snorkeling,” Steve muttered, giving in to temptation and blatantly staring at Bucky’s ass.

…

They had to retrieve snorkeling gear from the big house, ducking in and out before the others even noticed. To Steve’s surprise, Bucky had seemed to take to island life like a duck in a new pond, tossing greetings to several staffers and a fisherman, and then winking at a woman in a bright yellow apron as she hung sheets on a long wire line.

Before Steve had time to process any of that, though, Bucky was dragging him waist deep into the clear turquoise aqua water off the crescent shaped beach. He was prepping their masks and Steve still hadn’t found his tongue.  

“Okay, check it. I adjusted it, but your head’s kinda big.” Bucky held the mask in Steve’s direction.

Steve smirked. “You know what they say, the bigger the brain the bigger the--” He sputtered through an unexpected face full of water. “ _Ass_.”

“Well that ain’t you then, cause your ass is practically nonexistent _._ ” Bucky reached to tip Steve’s snorkel upright when it flipped backward.  He slid his mask over his eyes and inserted the snorkel in his mouth, before taking a breath and ducked under, sealing the mask and blowing excess water through the tube. “Check the seal like this,” he said when he emerged.

Steve knew he should find him wholly unattractive, what with the stringy hair clinging to his head like seaweed and a neon orange mask attached to his face--but damn if he didn’t want to drag him right back up that sandy hill and lay him out over their great big bed.

“Uh huh,” he muttered, pulling the mask into place. He tried to mimic Bucky’s actions, and was somewhat successful; he didn’t end up with a lungful of saltwater at least. Bucky beamed, which Steve figured was a win.

“Okay, two rules.” Bucky held up one finger. “One, we use the buddy system. You keep an eye on me and I’ll keep one on you. Be aware of your surroundings, it can be disorienting when your face is in the water.”

“Okay.” Steve nodded. “I take it you’ve done this before.”

“I spent a couple of summers down in Florida,” Bucky grinned. He held up a second finger. “Two, if we do get separated or you’re in trouble, we’ll use hand signals. This is _OK.”_ He demonstrated and Steve nodded again. “And this is _I need help._ ”

“And what if _you_ need help?” Steve asked, tongue in cheek.

Bucky splashed him. “Then you are carrying me bridal style back to our love hut.” He grinned when Steve’s mouth fell open, and dropped into the water.  “Are you coming or not, dickweed?” And then he was off, face in the waves, cute little blue-covered butt up above, and Steve was still very very screwed.

...

There were fish, hundreds and hundreds of them, so brightly hued it didn’t seem possible they were real. Steve barely had enough time to capture a glimpse of one before it would disappear between the corals, but then a new one would appear and off he would go in pursuit. Bucky seemed content to follow, pointing out things Steve might have otherwise missed—waving lavender anemone, and a seahorse, so delicate and shy Steve was almost sorry they had disturbed it.

He was shocked when Bucky tapped him on the ankle and pointed back toward the beach, where Tony and the others could be seen gathering their own gear. Reluctantly, Steve let Bucky lead him in, stopping him before they were in earshot of the beach’s occupants.

“Buck—” He swallowed, holding his snorkel and mask in his hand. “That was awesome. Thank you.”

Bucky blinked, his mouth opening and closing as though he didn’t know how to respond. Steve started when he grabbed him behind the neck and pulled him down into a kiss.

Somewhere over the soft sound of the waves hitting the sand behind him, and the blood rushing in his ears, Steve could hear Tony and Clint hooting in approval.

He grinned, a soft laugh escaping when he felt Bucky’s mouth turn up against his.

“You’re welcome,” Bucky said quietly, and when he turned toward the sand, it was all Steve could do not to pull him back and kiss him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, friends. Liiifffeeee.


End file.
